Shakespeare’s Ode To The Well Dressed Guy With Bird Shit All Over His Back

Dress’d to the nines be you,
He that loves to be flattered.
Thine overcoat dost be of Boss
And thine shoes do reveal the telltale crimson stripe
One has come to know as Prada.
Your hair, O does it shine! Slick’d into armor.
Endeavoring to announce your lofty title
Perchance a broker, salesman or lender be?
And your gait, noble gait! ‘Tis rapid and confident.
Assur’d you are of your position in life’s menagerie.
Alas, there is bird shit on your back.
Unbeknown’st to you, dear prince, an avian of genus unknown hath struck.
And placed on thine back a kingly amount of air dropp’d faeces.
Such cruel fate that nightingale or lark hath chanced to mar your good fortune!
O, how bitter a thing it is to not knowest one bears copious droppings.
In the tangl’d humanity of 14th Street did I bear witness to
thine misfortune, so boldly announc’d.
Your regal airs so vilely usurped by traitorous, uncaring bowels.
Make haste! Get thee to an apothecary!
Thus has Heavenly-sent mischief laid waste your kingdom;
The valiant die once, those burdened with guano die many times over.
Such sweet sorrow to shuffle off one’s coat, only to be tutored:
In addition to greatness, some also have bird shit thrust upon them.

A Serial Killer Regrets His Dressing

[Male, 30’s.]
Damn. Ranch dressing was a mistake. When’s the last time I enjoyed Ranch? Never. Never is when. Always a letdown. Like when I killed that farmer with a birch log. Give me a break. One whack and he’s dead? Come on. Not a single scream. No pleading. Nothing. Very unsatisfying. Like this dressing. And since when is birch hard enough to kill a man with one whack? Birch is a soft wood. Should never have killed him. It should have been a starter, if you will.
Speaking of starter, here’s this stupid salad. With Ranch dressing on it. I don’t know what I was thinking.
You know, I’m a loser. I have numerous options and I settle for Ranch? Damn it. I should know better. I never learn. I’m so stupid! There I am squatting in the woods, six kids camping. Options like crazy. No one for miles. And what do I do? I panic. I head to town to stalk hookers. I mean, come on. Be brave. They have Parmesan Peppercorn, for God’s sake. Bacon Walnut. I had options. But I take the easy way out. I’m a loser, loser, loser. Just like dad said I was.
Would dad have picked Ranch? No. Never! He was always up to a challenge when he wasn’t belittling me. He’d have tried the Garlic Vinaigrette without hesitating. He was a beater. A kicker. He wasn’t the type to hide in the garage with a shotgun to surprise his dad like I did. He was bold, like Roquefort. He was surprised.
Roquefort compliments a steak dinner. It would have been perfect. It could have been perfect. If only mom stayed put. I could have been happy. Why’d she leave me? Thought she could hide in Maui? She was surprised to see me seize her. Ooh! Caesar. Why didn’t I go with that? I hate myself.
Even Thousand Island. It’s not the best, but it’s not Ranch. No one would judge me. Like the waiter. He thinks I can’t notice. I notice. I know he’s mocking me. He probably thinks I’m afraid of Honey Mustard. But I’m not. I’m a big man. I hear you, Jesus. I’ll show him.

Father Cleary Debates Wearing Drapes

Monologues for fearless actors, No. 1:
FATHER CLEARY [Male, 50s, Irish]
Father Cleary stands in front of the window.
Oh Heavenly Father, a life I have lived in humble service to you. Not one iota of regret have I that I followed the calling when, as a youth in Cork, you summoned me to serve you. And that I have done! Chaste have I remained, as you asked, and devoted I have been, as is expected of a representative of the Church. But I was wondering if I might try on these drapes.
I believe they are some type of velour, though I can’t be sure. I have been serving you for so many years, and with such devotion, that never was I able to become schooled in the various advancements in home and office décor. Indeed, much has changed since we stopped delivering sermons in Latin, and for certain that includes the science of textiles. So please forgive me, Lord, for not knowing if they’re velour, or cotton, or synthetic, or otherwise. Blends – what have you. I do not know, Lord. But you are all-knowing and so I shall not dwell on the composition of these drapes I may or may not wear, as the fabric is ultimately of no import – especially when compared with your message, which I have dutifully spread.
I was just thinking I might take these drapes down from the window, remove them from the rod and try them on. Throw them over my shoulders and whatnot. I would wear these drapes only for a short while. Like a cloak made of crushed red velour, or whatever the material is. Perhaps I would march up and down my study, as if I were a king, or leading a parade of elephants. Or any creatures, really. There’s no reason it would have to be elephants, God. That’s unimportant. What is important, Heavenly Father, is that I would remain pious and humble throughout, as I have been my whole life. There’s just something about these drapes.
This isn’t to suggest in the slightest that I’ve tired from my modest dress throughout all these years. Quite the contrary! I have always enjoyed the ease and simplicity of my priestly wardrobe. There has always been great comfort in knowing that I shall be wearing black pants, a black shirt and a white collar. It expedites my dressing greatly, which allows me to spend more time baptizing and conducting Mass and things. I have always been proud to be so easily recognized in the pub as a man of God.
But at the moment I am vexed by these drapes and can’t help but think how interesting it might be to wear them. Only with your permission, of course, as I have devoted my life to you and in no way wish to anger you, Lord, if wearing drapes might do such a thing. I will say I would be surprised it if did, as in my 30-some years of familiarity with the Holy Book I have never come across any passages that would suggest wearing drapes a sin or otherwise. But Lord, I am your subject, a simple man who greatly fears incurring your wrath. So, if you don’t mind, I will wait for a sign that suggests you don’t have any qualms with me wearing drapes. Perhaps you could make a noise or have a bird chirp audibly. Also, if you might remind me where the stepladder is, that would be great, because the last time I stood on the radiator my feet were burned.

Shakespeare Decides To Iron His Pants

Alas! My pants are well burdened by wrinkles, as the conscience of a king is burdened by the weighty actions he hath made upon the throne. A bachelor shall I remain, and to the grave go I alone, should not from my pants these wrinkles out.
Cupid would be loath to waste an arrow on my behalf, should he bear witness to these wrinkles in my pants. There is but one remedy, to iron, and in so doing to have wrinkles no more. Only then, pants unwrinkled, should I be deserving of goodly company and pleasurable consort.
For no woman, neither milk maid nor royal, would take into her sight even the most handsome of men, should his pants be wrinkled. No skill at wit nor craft at jest could strong enough be to overcome the outrageous provocation of pants unsmoothed.
How comes this trick upon me? Shall I not die in sorrows, the sufferings reserved for men of wrinkled pants? No! I shall rise against such tyranny! Fortune hath placed an iron in my closet which please me more than words can wield the matter. Why, soon, shall these wrinkles out.