Teehee. Poop.

It doesn’t matter how many times I sit through Antony and Cleopatra, or how well I know my Shakespeare, or, indeed, my basic nautical terms. I will never not giggle at ‘the poop was beaten gold’, and you can’t make me stop. Because I’m twelve.

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This entry was posted on August 4, 2013 by naralesser and tagged anachronisms, owls, painfully literal, paronomasiacs, personal stories you didn't want to hear, self-loathing, Shaking the spear, the arts, this won't end well.

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