“Thy maternal progenitor don-eth the footwear of battle.” Yo, armor boy—you tryin’ to say my mama wears combat boots? Quite a medieval mouth ya got on ya, pally. Are ye itchin’ for a fight? Seems like a lot of you sword-swipin’, spike-swingin’, ale-swiggin’ knight types are in Tournament of Kings.
Such a royal fuss you all make, on and off horseback, charging at each other in heated faceoffs as your glistening foils clang, and challenging each other with King Arthur-style contests of physical daring. Meanwhile we in the crowd stuff our faces with Cornish game hen, guzzle dragon’s blood (actually, tomato soup) and cheer on our assigned country and king in our very own rooting sections with a lusty “Huzzah!” (Oh, and also lust after those fetching maidens who prance by us in the big dirt arena.)
Such spectacle. Even the wizardly, magic-spinning Merlin and the equally wizardly, fire-spewing Mordred drop in. However, in honor (if that’s the word) of the just-concluded, nastiest U.S. presidential campaign in modern history, let’s listen in on what you catty kings—representing Russia, Norway, Spain, Austria, Ireland, Hungary and France—utter to each other under your lordly breath during your dynamic duels:
“Thou art so ugly that when thy maternal progenitor drop-eth thee off at school, she is fined for littering.” En garde! “Oh yeah-eth? Thou maternal progenitor is so ugly that thou paternal progenitor takes her to work with him so he doesn’t have to kiss-eth her goodbye.” Thrust! Parry!
“Is that so-eth? Well, thou have something on thy chin—third one down-eth.” Clank! Oof! “Ha-ha-eth! But do thee ever halt thou consumption of sustenance at the castle banquets? The only letters of the alphabet thou know-eth are KFC.” Swoosh! Bang!
“How droll-eth. Why don’t thou check-eth on eBay and see if they have-eth a life for sale?” Slice! Aargh! “Hardee-har-har-eth. I would slap-eth thee but that would be animal abuse.” Feint! Retreat!
“Yuk-yuk-yuk-eth. We all sprang-eth from apes but thou didn’t spring-eth far enough.” Lunge! Riposte! “How-cute-eth. But if I wanted to kill thyself, I could just climb-eth up to your ego and jump down-eth to your IQ level.” Advance! Youch!!!
“Thou art sooo hilarious. But thou art also so stupid that the M&M factory fired thee for throwing out all the Ws.” Hit! A-ha! “How amusing you are-eth. But thou at so stupid that thou tried to put-eth the M&Ms in alphabetical order.” Riposte! Counter-riposte!
“Is that the best you have-eth? Well, thou art so dumb that thou thought a quarterback was a refund.” Charge! Retreat! “Thou art soooo lame-eth. By the way, thy village called and want their idiot back.” Thrust! Duck!
“Thy wit flow-eth like molasses. By the way, can I borrow-eth your face? My rear end has taken-eth a vacation.” Swoosh! Leap! “How uproarious you aren’t! Well, thou family tree is a weeping willow.” Attack! Oof!
“How dare-eth thee insult my family. Well, everyone has a right to be ugly but your family abuse-eth the privilege.” Swish! Clang! “Thou is a dog! But condolences to thine own family now that thy mirror has committed suicide.” Parry! Ow! … Son of a …
“HA! Got-eth thee! Is this the best thee can swordfight? Thou couldn’t hit water if thou fell out of a boat.” Chaaaarge! “Enough! I could continue insulting thee but I couldn’t do as good a job as nature did.”
Lay down thine arms—and thy swordlike tongues, ye roundtable titans. Our historically nasty presidential election—and therefore, our tendency toward venomous verbal clashes, even at a good-natured Las Vegas “tournament’’—is done. Or at least we can hope-eth.
Excalibur, 6 p.m. Mon. & Fri., 6 & 8:30 p.m. Wed.-Thurs. & Sat.-Sun., $75.36 dinner and show. 702.597.7600
