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Having learned that Laura Ingraham likes Shakespeare so much, I teamed up with the man himself to offer a modest little adaptation of Henry V’s St Crispin’s Day speech:
O that we now had here
But one of those sixteen vanquished aspirants
That do no work to-day!
What’s he that wishes so?
My cousin, McMullin? No, my fair cousin;
If we are mark’d to lose, we are enow
To do our party loss; and if to live,
The fewer voters, the greater share of honour.
God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more,
Be he little, lyin’, or low-energy in kind.
By Jeb, I am not covetous for golden homes,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my write-off;
It yearns me not if men my red hats wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
But if it be a sin to covet greatness,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a zot from Florida.
God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more methinks would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more suited to prevail!
Rather proclaim it, McMullin, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his cocktails shall be made,
And crowns for his Acela put into his purse;
We would not lose in that man’s company
That fears his internships to die with us.
This day is call’d the feast of Ingraham.
He that outlives this day, and earns safe seat,
Will stand a tip-toe when his name is call’d,
And rouse him at the name of Radio.
He that shall live this day, and see clicks hence,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his cable news,
And say “To-morrow is Saint Ingraham.”
Then will he stretch his hands and show his memes,
And say “These states we lost on Laura’s day.”
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words—
Falwell the Priest, Gingrich and Hannity,
Lahren and Dobbs, Mitchell and Bannon—
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb’red.
This story shall the sly man teach his son;
And Laura Ingraham shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in her shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers
For he to-day that hits blue wall with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
My wealth shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in Utah now a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Laura’s day.
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