Because The Hangover movie poster would have been too obvious, and also because everything's a little better when it involves kittens
So for the past week or so Shakespeare has kind of become a game of find the dick joke. I mean, we're still doing criticism and analyzing and all the boring stuff, but you don't want to hear about that (and if you do, I am slightly weirded out by your intense geekiness) so I'm just focusing on the immaturely hilarious stuff. Anyway, I always knew Shakespeare, for all that my high school teachers "masterpiece theater'd" him, pandered to his audience with all kinds of dirty humor, it's just only in college and I'm learning to spot the really obscure ones and realizing just how many there are. How many? LOTS. So much that me and my fellow Shakespeare sufferers decided that if I ever became a literature professor (perish the thought) that I would teach a course entitled: Shakespeare, Genitalia and You.
Now picture him holding a up penis Hamlet-style and you have a pretty good idea of what my class would entail. Basically:
(Thud of complete works of Shakespeare hitting a desk) "This is Twelfth Night. Now find all the penises!"
or: "I want a five page paper of all the insinuated vaginas in A Midsummer Night's Dream!"
or even: "Now explain how this dick joke sheds light on character motivation!" "...he's motivated by dick?" "Sure! Why not?"
What glorious times they would be. (This is why I should not be allowed anywhere near developing young minds, seriously, I managed to teach a class of five year olds one summer the basic towel-related tenets of The Hitchhiker's Guide to The Galaxy)
In other news, I look forward to a night of being all alone because everyone on campus and their little dog too is going to see Wicked, which I have roughly zero interest in. I'm not knocking the play, I'm just not that into it (also because if I knocked it the legions of Wicked fans, second only to maybe Twilight Fans or Trekkies in viciousness, would hurt me, possibly in the form of a house)
Look, dropping a house on me was bad enough, but do I have to wear these shoes? They pinch the toes something awful...
Well, I won't be all alone, I suppose. Roomie Arlene is probably sitting in the common room right now, waiting to bludgeon me to death with an xbox controller for kicking her ass in Scene It last night. It was very Darth Vader and Luke, in the "battle between the master and the newcomer in which the newcomer kicks the master's ass" sort of way, as opposed to the "Arlene is my father" scenario, which would raise a whole bevy of disturbing questions. The main point to take away from this was that I bested her in three rounds out of five and that she felt the stinging shame of defeat...except for this one question where the answer was Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade and she figured it out before I did, taking care to RUB IT IN MY FACE WITH THE FORCE OF A MALLET.
Obviously, the proper thing to do would be ritualistic samurai-style suicide, aka seppeku, to restore my honor, but since my only swords here are foam ones, dropping to the couch and begging the almighty Connery for forgiveness had to suffice.
All right, time for me to saunter down to the Dining Hall and experience the crushing disappoint of what dinner has to offer...yay.
"A taste for irony has kept more hearts from breaking than a sense of humor, for it takes irony to appreciate the joke which is on oneself" -Jessamyn West