English IV AP
The Ryan Stiles Monologue
"If I were a man with gills, I would be a fish."
I face a door that leads to potential fortune.
The sky...the sky beyond the door is blue.
I entered that door at a young age,
and like a newly birthèd foal,
I faced my experiences through naive eyes.
From the impromptu melodies of Christianity
to those of country-western to the Celtic rhythms of the drunkards,
my fate would be to mime the follies from the cleanser of scientific studies.
The very science which hath created the peculiar absurdity known as the primate-headed hippopotamus.
The destiny of my eternity is subjected to those very humiliating
yet amusing experiences throughout the course of my life.
The peak of humility - 'twas the experience of destroying the golden
illumination while assuming the identity of the dry and barren woman.
I long for a respectable career.
One not within the realm of promoting facsimile services,
nor that of having the reputation of the oafish, gangly sex fiend.
Far too long have I suffered the taunting of the tortoise who hath not adequate follicles.
He and others mock me incessantly, needlessly, for their own pleasure.
The man that I resemble, the youthful medical practitioner.
with the curly blonde locks, would be the ever-imminent reminder,
for I shall always encounter such puns and insults slain against my will.
For years, I've longed for that which all long for;
fame, riches, glory...
In return for my talent, my worthiness, my potential,
I am doomed to this menial destination.
Perchance 'tis what I deserve
For the sake of appreciating fortune, I should count my blessings.
The courses of other lives are oft more steeply inclined
The very prease that I entertain, methinks,
can only be uplifted through my base jestering and gesturing
'Tis the sole satisfaction that persists me through the dateless and bootless routines
as I fan the flames of the false charade.
If only they knew of my vizard of bitterness.
In thus respect, I am an equivocator.
My clogs have scotched me, they can only be clouded by my wit.
The God of Puns...
The God of Impromptu Melodies...
The God of Sarcastic Wit...
The God of Vulgar Double Entendres...
all part of th' heavy chains of injustice,
victims of ignorance, the mere trinkets
of those with higher powers
Though 't may seem repetitive, 'tis for a true purpose,
for the monotony of this monologue
shadows the monotony of my life.
The abstract props never see a unique experience.
Nor do I.