Last year the president was favored with a performance of content produced by an artist who has written some of the most atrocious things -- a monologue from a character who murdered his own wife. This artist has written about cannibalism, rape, incest, domestic violence, torture, murder, and warfare. His work is peppered with sympathetic portrayals of characters who carry out these crimes -- not to mention explicit sexual references and bawdy jokes. Bawdy. Jokes.
Of course, he's referring to the Bard of Avon, one of the most blood-drenched and sex-crazed poets of the English language. Consider, if you will, "Sonnet 135":
Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy 'Will,'
And 'Will' to boot, and 'Will' in overplus;
More than enough am I that vex thee still,
To thy sweet will making addition thus.
Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?
Shall will in others seem right gracious,
And in my will no fair acceptance shine?
The sea all water, yet receives rain still
And in abundance addeth to his store;
So thou, being rich in 'Will,' add to thy 'Will'
One will of mine, to make thy large 'Will' more.
Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill;
Think all but one, and me in that one 'Will.'
Let me point out something that's going on in this sonnet. When Shakespeare uses the word "Will," he is mostly talking about genitals: Both his penis and, to borrow another famous Shakespeare joke, "country matters." Yeah, he gave his piece his own name. And he would basically hit anything on two legs.