Satirist King David was reported taking part in a new business venture yesterday. The earthy humorist was witnessed selling soil and satire at the local farmer's market in Durham. After being interviewed, the obdurate pragmatist said that he couldn't resist the opportunity.
"I can get this stuff (good topsoil) for $10.00 a truckload at the landfill, bring it to the market and sell it by the bag full. It's pretty good stuff too. I've used it in my yard and it definitely grows plants....
...It may have a few pieces of plastic scattered throughout the mix, but I consider those treasures sort of like finding the marshmallows in your box of Lucky Charms, or bones on an archeological dig."
It is suspected that the proliferous satirist is selling the soil and satire to supplement a low teacher's salary being supported by the state.
"This is insufferable," he remarks. "After bills, I squeak by and somehow have enough for supper."
Others say the sanguine satirist selling soil and satire is demonstrably supercilious and is tired of buskering for silver Susans on the corner of Seventh Avenue and St. Stephens Street.
But we felt it rather odd that he would be selling soil and satire together.
"Yes, I know it seems rather odd," he mused. "Soil and satire are very much alike though. You have to have both to grow things. And when you get the right balance of NPK (nouns/nitrogen, pronouns/phosphorus and prepositions/potassium), sunlight, water and manure you can work miracles....
...Take Shakespeare, for example. In Sonnet 54 he's able to unmask the truth with a lovely garden metaphor addressed to youth."
O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
Hang on such thorns and play as wantonly
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses:
But, for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade,
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made:
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth.
What is more truthful than satire and a good, loamy soil to plant in?