|If it walks like a tyrant, and talks like a
tyrant, it’s probably a tyrant.
‘Puter woke up this morning in the Castle’s archives, located several planes of existence below the Castle’s library. Or before the Castle’s library. Or among the Castle’s library. Dang. Ever since GorT redid the Castle’s layout to comport with string theory, ‘Puter’s lucky he can find the drawbridge as he makes his daily trip down to the Leaping Peacock, which is where ‘Puter was last evening.
Also, to be fair, ‘Puter didn’t so much wake up as get pimp-slapped back to consciousness by one very angry Castle head librarian, @mbernadettee. Thank goodness she turned her Borgia ring inward so ‘Puter’s face didn’t get all cut up like last time. Anyway, as ‘Puter groggily mumbled his apologies for drunkenly playing connect the dots in her original Book of Kells (you didn’t really think the Gormogons would let the dirty Irish at Trinity College in Dublin keep such a valuable artifact, did you?), ‘Puter realized she was shrieking in delight.
Affixed to ‘Puter’s face with a night’s worth of drool was a long-forgotten original folio written by the bard himself. After our head librarian and all-around bad-ass got finished reading it to ‘Puter (‘Puter always gets read a story when he wakes up. Or else.), ‘Puter realize it was perfect for today, Tax Day!
As such, you fortunate Gormogon readers get an exclusive world premiere excerpt from the newly discovered Shakespeare folio Obama I. Read on, if you’re literate. If not, have someone read it to you, ‘Puter style.
JACK, DUKE OF LEW, CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER
O that we now had here
But one ten thousand of those spenthrifts in America
That do no work to-day!
KING OBAMA I
What’s he that wishes so?
My cousin Jack of Lew? No, my fair cousin:
If we are mark’d to loaf, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to o’erspend,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am covetous for others’ gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon civic cost;
It yearns me not if men others’ garments wear;
Paying such benefits dwells not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet national bankruptcy,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from America:
God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more, methinks, would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Exchequer, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to overtax his neighbour,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made
And ill-got crowns put into his purse:
We would not quantitatively ease in that man’s company
That fears his fellowship to quantitatively ease with us.
This day is called the feast of Matthew*:
He that breaks the nation this day, and comes poor home,
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Matthew.
He that shall screw his neighbour this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil beggar his neighbours,
And say ‘To-morrow is Saint Matthew’s:’
Then will he strip his balance sheet and show his debts.
And say ‘These debts I incurred on Matthew’s day.’
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember with advantages
What dollars he burned that day: then shall our names.
Familiar in his mouth as household words
Obama the king, Clinton and Kerry,
Holder and Hagel, Napolitano and Chu,
Be in their flowing spending freshly remember’d.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Matthew’s feast shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember’d;
We few, we happy few, we swarm of locusts;
For he to-day that spends others’ wealth with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in America now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here to stop us,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That bankrupted America with us upon Saint Matthew’s day.
‘Puter’s never been much of a Shakespeare buff, but man, that guy sure knew his stuff. It’s like he wrote it yesterday. The entire manuscript is available for purchase in the Castle’s gift shop, located on the Lido Deck, just adjacent to the ossiary, for the special price of $16 trillion. What a bargain!
Enjoy Tax Day, Fifty Three Percenters!
*St. Matthew the Apostle is the patron saint of tax collectors.
Always right, unless he isn’t, the infallible Ghettoputer F. X. Gormogons claims to be an in-law of the Volgi, although no one really believes this.
’Puter carefully follows economic and financial trends, legal affairs, and serves as the Gormogons’ financial and legal advisor. He successfully defended us against a lawsuit from a liquor distributor worth hundreds of thousands of dollars in unpaid deliveries of bootleg shandies.
The Geep has an IQ so high it is untestable and attempts to measure it have resulted in dangerously unstable results as well as injuries to researchers. Coincidentally, he publishes intelligence tests as a side gig.
His sarcasm is so highly developed it borders on the psychic, and he is often able to insult a person even before meeting them. ’Puter enjoys hunting small game with 000 slugs and punt guns, correcting homilies in real time at Mass, and undermining unions. ’Puter likes to wear a hockey mask and carry an axe into public campgrounds, where he bursts into people’s tents and screams. As you might expect, he has been shot several times but remains completely undeterred.
He assures us that his obsessive fawning over news stories involving women teachers sleeping with young students is not Freudian in any way, although he admits something similar once happened to him. Uniquely, ’Puter is unable to speak, read, or write Russian, but he is able to sing it fluently.
Geep joined the order in the mid-1980s. He arrived at the Castle door with dozens of steamer trunks and an inarticulate hissing creature of astonishingly low intelligence he calls “Sleestak.” Ghettoputer appears to make his wishes known to Sleestak, although no one is sure whether this is the result of complex sign language, expert body posture reading, or simply beating Sleestak with a rubber mallet.
‘Puter suggests the Czar suck it.