Friday, March 21, 2008

A Letter to the Editor of
The London Torch,
Dated April 12, 1591

Lord BellinghamEditor:

Just as two plump and o’er-ripe pomegranates are crack’d betwixt stones for thy luncheon, in sooth I would thy balls were pummeled so.

I’ the week past didst thou run an accusation most inflammatory, in which thy rampant liberal bias stood swollen red like a sore thumb that hath been struck in error. Thy ignorance of affairs financial so obviously makes itself known that I need not illustrate it further, and yet by the idiocy of your readers I am compelled to do so.

Canst thou not see with thine own eyes that tax breaks made to the Lords wilt surely trickle down, as a sweet summer shower, towards the lower and more common classes?

I chide thee for thy foolish remarks, and hereby issue warning that shouldst thou run afoul of mine honor again, I would fain see thy arse made a hat to thy head.

I charge thee to print this letter, but avow that of its public display there is much doubt in my breast, so cowardly in word and deed art thou.

Again, and again I charge thee: let not the fervor with which you fellate the liberal platform stay thee from the immediate printing of this letter.

These words were writ in utmost sincerity,

Lord Bellingham III

* * *

A Letter Addressed to
William Shakespeare

O, you perfidious and cocksome baldpate!

In my flowered youth, I was stricken with the odious French Disease, contracted when I didst lay with a young boy in sin. For well nigh a fortnight I lay prostrate in my chambers, my innards twisted and bowels freely and liberally expressing themselves upon my carpeted floor.

Such discomfit was naught when compared to the pain inflicted by the bumbling exhibited on the unworthy scaffold of The Globe this Saturday last.

Thy rank performance, which thou hadst the balls to monicker As You Like It, made one want rather to masturbate with a fistful of tenpenny nails. In sooth, the cavorting and warbling of thy cast onstage reminded me of nothing so much as my recent visit to Ye Olde Woodehouse School For Retards.

I beseech thee, return the ha’penny I paid for admission to thy play, or risk the browning of my boot tip in thy capacious arse.

’Tis true a ha’penny is naught to me, a Lord so wealthy that I couldst on a whim purchase your petty theatre for conversion into a bearbaiting pit or other wholesome entertainment, but ’tis a matter of principle. I did not gain my wealth by frittering it away upon amateur theatricals akin to the flatulence I can enjoy for free in the presence of my colossal and gaseous wife.

Master Shakespeare, your plays are excrement, your acting still worse, and if the world holds any justice thy name shall be forgotten ten minutes past thy death.

Lord Bellingham III

P.S. Enclosed, please find an artistic rendering of myself engaged in forcible homosexual intercourse with your person.

* * *

A Sonnet Entitled
“On Lord Wriothesley’s
Newest Fife and Tabor Composition”

Thy notes did pour forth from the page and fly
Into mine ear where they didst find a nook,
And nestled there, then urging me to cry
“I’m reminded of a dump that I once took!”
Security at thy estate was bold
In carting hence my vainly flailing form,
But no amount of beating couldst withhold
My shrieks that thou wert “sucking up a storm!”
Yes, bloodied be my nose by your swift thugs,
And drunk I was when I decried thy work,
Yet no amount of ale or other drugs
Can e’er make me deny thou art a jerk.
In short, though thou be made into a saint,
Thy fife and tabor piece can eat my taint.

* * *

A Short Story Submitted to
The Ripping Bodice,
an Erotic Magazine

Dear Ripping Bodice Magazine,

In sooth, I never thought it could happen to me. Yet there I stood, in the luminous presence of her most divine majesty, the virgin queen, Regina Dentata, Elizabeth I.

“Come, Bellingham,” purred she, face painted a pure white, and rose lips a-quiver. She wast clad in a dress most cumbersome, regal and expansive about its whalebone underframe. I strode to the throne whereon she sat and began the laborious process of removing that royal garment.

Panting with impatience, the Queen eyed my fumbling hands with contempt, and in a single move swept the hem of her dress over my head. Once within the close embrace of her naked and moon-pale thighs, I wast greeted with a sight and smell most scintillating.

The royal venus mons, tempered with the maturity of sixty winters and untouched by the hand of man. The Elizabethan love muffin smelled and looked akin to an ancient and wizened cheese, musky and inviting.

I can tell thee with no shame, I soon felt a stirring in my codpiece most insistent. My rod of rule strained fitfully ’gainst its stays, as blood flooded it like a wineskin full to bursting.

“I command thee,” came the Queen’s illustrious voice from above, “engage orally with my virgin O, and bring thy Lady to a climax befitting the head and heart of the vast English empire.”

“I am at your service,” I replied, bringing the moistened tip of my tongue to th’ entrance of her long-sealed and secret cave. The taste, much like to a delectable blood pudding …

[The rest of the manuscript is soiled and unreadable.]

Michael Swaim is a humor writer whose work appears regularly on Cracked. He is also cofounder and head writer for the Internet sketch troupe Those Aren’t Muskets!

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