[Einstein reaches behind his chair and pulls out a bottle of wine. He begins pouring two glasses.]

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE: Thank you, my good sir. Sweet wine ... there is nothing finer. In vito veritas, as they say; "in wine there is truth;" meaning, there was a man named Vito who "told the truth all the time, when he drank that wine."

ALBERT EINSTEIN: [in quick, motherly affirmation] Yes, that's why they rhyme, time and wine. [suddenly, in a strange tone] But that was such a great bit of verse, my friend!

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE: Oh, my future friend! Thank you so much. I have such a wealth of ideas for plays that were never made. [suckling his drink with one side of his mouth while speaking through the other; an irritating presentation] That's from an old one, about the things that i like to do, and the not-retarded shorts I wear all year long. It was never staged, for I feared persecution.

ALBERT EINSTEIN: "Spoilers," my friend! [laughs]


DJ TIESTO, THE PLAYWRIGHT'S GOOD FRIEND, IN THE AUDIENCE WATCHING: [laughs] [softly and respectfully] This is some good shit man.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE: Ah, but what a shame, I'll never truly be able to produce those old plays, with "Twitter" as the sole format of creative production, here in the future.

[Both stare off into the distance, futurously, as the "Future Theme" plays.]

ALBERT EINSTEIN: Yes, that's a shame. For the Twitter, which now is the name of planet earth [the "Future Theme" sounds ominously as he pauses briefly], seems to not only limit the creative mind, but also convince it of banality.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE: That's right. With "Twitter" as the de jure--meaning that a jury decided it somewhere, for fun--form of expression, people have begun to see these halls of benign unfinished thoughts as the full extent of their creative capabilities. With this forced realization, then, comes melancholy. There's the rub. Yes, there's the rub; as I once said in my famous play, The Hamlet ... [in a lower voice] "There's the rub."

ALBERT EINSTEIN: Yes, there's the rub ... [he bends forward from his chair and begins to slowly and intimately massage William Shakespeare's inner thigh through his denim jeans] ... there it is. Right there. [intimately, in a hoarse whisper] There it is. [as if in an erotic trance] There's the rub.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE: Oh, god. Please kiss my thighs. [in a sing-songy voice] Please kiss my thighs Albert Einstein in the fu~ture. [in a determined, perverted tone] I'm Will Shakespeare from The Hamlet. Please kiss my thighs. Please. Please. [groaning] There's the rub. There's the rub. Please. [suddenly whispered; swiftly, as if frightened] Please.


John WET BUTT V. is a dumb 21 year old and his psych pop disco thing is at vibrain.bandcamp.com

Ali Horn illustrated this meeting of the minds; she's used to drawing all-time greats!

– WET BUTT (@wettbutt)

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