AAAhhhh! Literati! Our thanks to Suzanne Morse, woman warrior, for the gift of this whine goblet that clearly indicates that William Shakespeare had anger issues expunged through writing.
Our friend in the UK, Jack Horne, found a few more with which to diminish the wench what done him wrong. Please join him as he extracts revenge in this entry into Wing Nuts. A good rant is good for whatever ales you!
No title. Guess I will have to give it one.
The Tankard Tome
by Jack Horne
Saturday night. The Boar’s Head Tavern was crowded. Rowdy laughter, brawls, smelly tallow candles and sweat were part of its character.
Shakespeare passed me another ale. We clanked tankards. Smiling, I glanced around. An open fire, wood panels, my wife…
Her low-cut dress revealed numerous love bites.
‘See the blonde over there,’ I said, nodding towards the door. ‘That’s Susan. She left me for that woman with the short grey hair.’
Shakespeare studied them. ‘O curse of marriage, that we can call these delicate creatures ours, and not their appetites!’ he said. ‘What’s done cannot be undone.’
I blinked back tears. ‘They swore it was platonic, but they were…’
‘Groping for trouts in a peculiar river?’ he suggested.
“Mr. Brautigan, we gather from the reports that your book has nothing to do with trout fishing” (Viking Press upon rejecting his novel)
‘That cuckold lives in bliss who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger, but, oh, what damnèd minutes tells he o’er who dotes, yet doubts- suspects, yet soundly loves!’
‘I’m lost now, Will. I’ll just have to wing it.’
He downed his ale in one, nodded for me to follow and approached the pair. ‘How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags! What is’t you do? A knot you are of damned bloodsuckers.’
He informed Susan, ‘Dissembling harlot, thou art false in all! There’s no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune.’ And he told her lover, ‘Thou unfit for any place but hell. Out, dunghill!’
‘Get thee to a nunnery,’ I added.
Laughing, Shakespeare and I watched them leave.