WEED SLEUTHS AFTER BILL'S BONES

Perchance did you see the article about some bonehead plan to dig up
old Bill Shakespeare to check for traces of marijuana? It's true.
Palaeontologists from South Africa have asked permission to exhume his
remains from a cemetery in Stratford on Avon. Now, I'm not one to
suggest that Bill (We writers always call each other by his or her
first name. For example, Leon Uris, Tom Clancy, J.K Rowling -- I guess
that blows that theory all to hell.)

As I was saying, Bill is one of the Elizabethan playwrights whose
immense body of work is suspected by literary historians as being
written by someone else. As if it matters now, the royalties have long
since run out. However, should anthropologist Francis Thackeray, the
leader of this band of nosy Parkers, actually find traces of weed in
his bones, the discovery could very well solve the mystery surrounding
his plays, poems and limericks. (Few people know that Bill was big on
limericks. His classic, There was an old girl from Penrhyndeudraeth
received critical acclaim from the Welsh Literary Society in spite of
the fact he was never able to come up with a second line.)

There may well be some merit to their quest since rumours abound that
he and several other writers of that era were known to get all banged
out of shape on special days, such as the Summer Solstice and Queen
Elizabeth's birthday. Once or twice, the old dear herself was reported
to have been seen staggering from the Pig and Whistle in the wee hours
looking somewhat worse for wear. Which wouldn't be hard, Liz the
First, not being a handsome woman and all.

Who knows who wrote what after an all-nighter when the big names were
drinking, smoking and wenching? I'm not saying the Queen was wenching,
but let's be honest, she never married. Although she was suspected of
dallying with Robert Devereux, the Earl of Essex. Bob was a bit of a
scamp whenever his missus was out of town.

Christopher Marlowe and Ben Jonson were both seen with Bill on many
occasions and after a few hours of imbibing could quite easily have
jotted down a sonnet or two. Regardless which one did the writing, it
is hard to imagine a sober scribbler dreaming up a scheming witch like
Lady Macbeth. Whoever wrote the Scottish play must have been on something.

Assuming Thackeray's request to exhume old Bill is granted, what do
you think the Bard is going to say when he hears about it? It will
probably go something like this:

Scene One -- Heaven, a fluffy white cloud. Enter three
writers

Marlowe -- Bill wake up, Bill, haul thine buttocks from under yon park
bench and taketh a gander at what is going on down in Stratford.

Shakespeare -- Forsooth and gazooks, don't tell me there is another
sale at the Stratford Home Hardware? I needst another round-nosed
shovel, like I need a hole in my puce hose.

Jonson -- Not Stratford, Ontario, the real one, some nosy varlets are
digging up thy plot.

Shakespeare -- Odds bodkins, my prize roses! Fetch me my poniard, I
shall aerate the cads. Why just yesterday, I blew a ha'penny on some
rose powder to...

Jonson -- Not your garden, thee dolt, your internment spot. Thee can be
somewhat of an ass at times.

Shakespeare -- Mayhap, I dost be an ass, but at least I remember to put
an "H" in my name, not like others I can mention and shall.

Jonson -- It was a mistake at the registry office. My father had just
crawled home from the Elephant and Hound. A bit of a souse, you know.
Made Falstaff look like a teetotaller, my old man.

Shakespeare -- Hey! What are they doing to my repose down
there?

Marlowe -- That's why we woke you up. They are after your
bones.

Shakespeare -- My bones? Well, I'll be a sonofabi...

Jonson -- Probably, but methinks they are after your
grass.

Shakespeare -- No doubt it's a mess and needs mowing. Anne should have
gone for the perpetual care plan.

Marlowe -- What? Thee say the strangest things at times.

Shakespeare -- I know. I think it may be the marijuana we get up here.
It comes from someplace in Severn Township. Speaking of marijuana,
roll me another joint?

Oh, oh, make haste! The jig is up. All three exeunt like a bat out of
hell as a heavenly narc arrives. Well, maybe not.