I am making soup and I am stirring my soup with a bone. I can’t tell you where the bone came from. That’s classified information.

If you want me to stop stirring my soup with a bone, you better give me three good reasons and fast.

Because the soup’s almost done.

Imagine this - you wake up one morning, and the thing that sits on your shoulders is a basketball and the thing you’re dribbling between your legs is your head. You don’t have a sister and the sister you don’t have doesn’t have a violin, and what you’re not worried about is how you’re not not going to be able to send her to a conservatory. You are a person, supposedly, who now has a basketball for a head, dribbling the thing that used to sit on your shoulders between your legs, about to leap grotesquely into the air and execute a slam dunk to the roaring applause of 20,000 hypnotized fans. Where once you were overwhelmed by poverty and despair, now you are becoming richer and freer from the demands of others by the moment. From now on, if someone wants something from you, they’ll have to get down on their knees and ask nicely. From now on, should someone dare to pelt you with an apple or a rock, it will not become lodged in your body and send you into a months long recovery. It will bounce off of you innocently, and hit the ground with barely a thud.

The camera pans back to show us sex between a lord and a lady, congress as it used to be called. The room is stunning in its appointments, the moonlight is streaming in, mixing with the candlelight, mixing with us, remastering our senses. We are convinced. He cannot stop stuffing it in. She cannot stop begging him to stuff it in. Everything is going great, really great, until a bat flies out of her wig. Thus the lush period piece becomes a comedy of errors, told from the bat’s perspective. We begin to pen our review - “Why does every comedy of errors start the same way . . .”