The Everglades. A porch.
Enter Bobby Joe and Cleavon.
Dagnabbit, Cleavon, I will know your thoughts.
Good Bobby Joe, pardon me;
Though I am bound to every match of football,
I am not bound to that which even slaves are free to.
Utter my thoughts? Why, say they are vile and false;
As whose are those to which no foul things
Sometimes intrude? Who has a breast so pure,
That no small unclean apprehensions
Record rounds and replays, and in session sit
With meditations skeptical?
Thou dost conspire against thy friend, Cleavon,
If thou but thinks him a fool yet makest his ear
A stranger to thy thoughts.
I do beseech you--
Though perchance I am vicious in my ways,
As, I confess, it is my nature's plague
To spy into abuses, and oft in my jealousy
There see evils that may not be--a claimed
Fifth round that is Eleventh, and on
The observance of matches more than
Seven hundreds to entertain the prospect of
Stoke City against Brighton and Hove Albion.
What dost thou mean?
Crawley Town, shackled by their debasement,
Outmatched predictably by the forces of Old Trafford;
Arsenal facing Leyton Orient, and on their
Return from pitting against continental foes,
One is left with nought but a replay. A replay!
Seven Hundreds and forty three more times we
Have ventured out, and all the magic of the cup
Is but a cheap replay fated to failure. Round upon
Round, and match upon match, and naught.
'Tis slim chance and folly and hope for something
More diverting than a lowly league contest,
Never found. More vexing still, primacy of import
Takes the form of a rematched pair of blues
From the penultimate set of cup distractions,
While the best of this round sets forth in a week
With City having been stuck replaying Notts County.
O beware, Cleavon, of jealousy!
It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock
The meat it feeds on. The cuckold lives in bliss,
Certain of his fate though he loves not his wronger,
And were yours still beholden to such contest
You would but proclaim your love, though
You know it unworthy!
Perhaps it is so, my lord; still, I find myself
Unsettled at how eager you seem to remove lines
From mine mouth.
So you don't think you're jealous of all
The teams still in this FA Cup of yours? All your
Proclamations that it's over-long and full of filler--
even after seven hundred and forty odd matches--
Yet it's hard not to catch a whiff of jealousy.
Maybe I am, but that bit about cuckolds being
Happier than husbands who don't know if their
Wives are faithful was my line. I'm not even
Certain it could work in its original context now,
Twisted around as you have made it. And what
The fuck does it even have to do with the FA Cup?
Don't ask me, Cleavon: you're the one who started
Talking all old-timey and shit. I don't even know
Who the hell Leyton Orient is.
Old timey and shit? Seriously? You fucking bring out
Green-eyed jealousy monsters to berate me,
For being fed up with some bullshit pointless cup
Competition that meant the weekend was
Pretty much worthless; then you claim you don't
Fucking know it's from Othello?
Do I look as though I've made thorough study
Of the classics, Cleavon? Or that I know
What in the hell a Leyton Orient has to do with
Football in any case? Are they some new member
Of Conference USA?
Soccer, Bobby Joe. That kind of football.
Pft. I think I liked the original Othello better. Always
Made me think of your mother.
Oh, fuck off. And you're probably thinking of Oedipus.
Then I'm certain none of this makes a lick of sense.
That's what happens when you go through
Seven hundred and forty three matches so that they
Can put the league on hold and the highlight of
Your weekend can be Arsenal versus Leyton Orient.
And in the end it still doesn't matter. I think
I need a Bud Light.