Alas, Poor Stan.

WHO THE HELL IS YORICK?

Put on the shelf, taken off the shelf, they throw me up and down, toss me around and call me Yorick. 

MY NAME IS STAN. Not even Stanley, just Stan. That's it. I used to sell insurance, in Butte, Montana. I had a wife and four kids. And one day I wound up here on the shelf, with all sorts of over-dramatic people calling me Yorick. 

Hamlet, the play is called. It's Shakespeare. Oh, I definitely know who Shakespeare is. I had to read King Lear in college - what a SNORE. Never read Hamlet, though. I knew there was a skull in it, and now, I guess I am that skull. I'm not sure what it's about, I'm thinking it's about death, since there's that whole to be or not to be thing that comes from it, and of course, ME, the skull. 

Obviously, I have a lot of time to ponder, here on this shelf. The lady behind me grows more beautiful by the day - she's mute, though, never says anything. I wish she'd speak. Then I could tell her my real name. I'd so love to hear someone call me Stan again, and from her styrofoam lips, it would be magic.

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