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Force Majeure Shaking Thine Speare

The ultimate reason for the theory growing in undue popularity, that William Shakespeare did not himself in fact scribe his own body of works, is that the monied have historically always informed themselves that what they do is smart and creative. And that those lacking financial holdings are actually incapable of intelligence or imagination, when in reality no business endeavor can exist without the craftiness of workers. The recent stimulus by the USA government purportedly for assisting small businesses during this pandemic was largely stolen by larger corporations, because without workers they earnestly have nothing. None sing praises of Trump’s smarts and creativity more than Trump himself, but exactly what amazing thing did he himself originate, at whichever point in his lifespan? The acolytes and indentured servants brown-nose-diving through hoops to perpetually clean up his immediate aftermath are Argonauts for the modern age, surely.

Yet with their monies can those already possessing far more than the workers themselves afford to advertise how the opposite of these matters is somehow the standard, that seeking legal protections from liability for natural consequences to demanding workers risk their own livelihoods in this pandemic solely to continue profit streams for employers, landowners and creditors, is somehow the moral high ground to guaranteeing the lives of the workers might continue unfettered. As though were the workers, customers and renters to one and all die out, the economy would still continue, could still continue. It’s admitting that the economy is not a national thing or a thing pertaining to the people at all, but only to the whims of the most selfish. Who can widely advertise that the impoverished are really the ones incapable of intelligence or imagination and that a poor man limited of resources could never possibly write such epic works of art as did Shakespeare.

There were some stories I’ve read of, where a sister of his secretly assisted with much of the writing. But the bigger theory is that Francis Bacon quietly oversaw a collection of hand-picked, enlightened writers, to surreptitiously share the pseudonym of Shakespeare, like Alan Smithee as a specific label with a singular vision. Demeaning the bard as a mere brand, a brand that any assortment of aristocrats could instill with life as a hobby, as an aside to their real commitments, obligations and passions. I find it such an insulting insinuation. Perhaps issues along the lines of the anti-monarchist sentiments found in some of his plays did not meet with his public execution, because in his own lifetime others were already laying claim to credit where not due. Maybe he attained no riches prior to his death because it took later minds to unearth the layers of his writing, so that for all intents and purposes in his own time he was merely another crankcase blogging away over heads aplenty into the unknowable. In an era when entertainers existed alongside royalty, there was no cause for the celebrity awarded to entertainers of today as replacements for royalty. And may that lack of causality return in years to come!

An extraordinarily stupid individual has been uplifted to a seat of high authority, and the inevitably stupid decisions he is making are costing physical life. That is the god’s honest reality of the capacities among the poor and the capacities among the enabled. Possession of marijuana statistically meets with harsher sentencing in the USA than rape, because prisons managed for-profit require crafty workers to generate spending money on behalf of the real con-artists able to swindle government contracts on the tax-payer’s dime. Heaven forbid anyone remind them that their beloved Jesus Christ character was a carpenter’s son. Audiences are encouraged to believe that magically, a system where university degrees are regularly purchased regardless of scoring has not and will not produce illiteracy.

To those of you reading this, were you not born into great wealth, or were you never to have devalued life in pursuit to obtaining wealth, do you particularly feel like an idiot? Or at least, more of an idiot than your boss, your President? Or just your former lovers? Does the fact that I once was the recipient of a blowjob inside the restroom of a lesbian bar make me less resourceful than one who could simply pay some stranger for the gratuity? Or did I earn what was mine?

The vast entirety of duties I’ve faced throughout my adult years thus far, compulsory and voluntarily, have been concerned with sorting out others. Cleaning after them, repairing their endless series of mistakes, doing things for them because they fucking know they would destroy themselves in the momentous attempt. I endured many years in no small part to ghostwriting and script-doctoring and particularly proofreading for others, particularly bad as I have no college degree to my name, much less a high school diploma. But yet I have survived my rather interesting hardships without need of false claims or reassurances, without the crutch of money, without the safety net of money and without the goal of money. The stories have I to tell, were I not gurgling bubbles here and there in the mud.