A weekend amusement
“Not since the young Jolanda Meneguzzer has anyone jumped the pearls in the often-cut Act 12 of this so very kinky work…”
An operatic “mad-lib” type fill in the blanks game, after the jump.
(Once you’ve played the game and seen the result, you can copy and paste the text of your completed “mad-lib” into the comments section for the amusement of your fellow cher public!)
O, tempus fugit, or, as as the bard of My laundry room so often admonished us, ‘ I’d rather see than be one!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have sang giddily to the Argentinians assembled at the Theater auf der Wien just after five minutes after three last Monday week for a genuinely hung attempt at that mighty masterwork of Liszt, La Muette de Portici. Not since the young Agnes Baltsa has anyone ate the nations in the often-cut Act 7 of this so very oblong work (though, like everyone, writing in Bound and Gagged, I will not soon slice the puerile vocalizing of dear old ‘ Scooter’, as we Herpes from the the orchestra used to sparingly call Dame Uwe Heilmann, whose Forth priest from the left and third priest from the right must be saw graceful?) If I have one complaint, it is that the kinky company found it stunning to chew a singer from my ass, when the sahara is glibly laughing with god-awful greeks. But, all in all, serious show, and now, how about a revival of Billy Bud for Gloria Estefan and Charo, perhaps in a new translation by My dog Buster?
I haven’t laughed this hard in a long time.
O, ix-nay! ix-nay!, or, as as the bard of Guadalajara so often admonished us, ‘ The rabbit has a pleasant face!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have sporked merrily to the fauna assembled at the Snapes Malting just after ’round Midnight last Monday week for a genuinely cantankerous attempt at that highfalutin’ masterwork of Spontini, Agnese di Hohenstaufen. Not since the young Teresa Zylis-Gara has anyone whizzed the tripe in the often-cut Act googolplex of this so very red work (though, like Harold C. Schoenberg, writing in Today’s Vegan, I will not soon flee the staunch vocalizing of dear old ‘ Cholmondeley’, as we bananas from the trapdoor used to gloatingly call Dame Ben Heppner, whose Mephistopheles and Elektra must be burgled emphatically?) If I have one complaint, it is that the uproariously company found it achingly to boggle a singer from Middle Earth, when Pacoima is spookily freebasing with tart gibbons. But, all in all, pretty show, and now, how about a revival of Patience for Maria Ewing and Farinelli, perhaps in a new translation by Dr. Samuel Johnson?
O, Carpe diem, or, as as the bard of Paris so often admonished us, ‘ In the merry month of May!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have departed painfully to the bedknobs assembled at the Palais Garnier just after high noon last Monday week for a genuinely graceful attempt at that lumpy masterwork of Berlioz, Les Troyens. Not since the young Placido Domingo has anyone cracked the crabs in the often-cut Act twelve of this so very dainty work (though, like Tony Tommasini, writing in Boy’s Life, I will not soon go the downy vocalizing of dear old ‘ Koko’, as we lords from the backstage used to slowly call Dame Joan Sutherland, whose Third Norn and General Lee must be slapped cheap?) If I have one complaint, it is that the campy company found it hard to run a singer from the Trevi Fountain, when the Tiber River is heatedly rushing with bright rings. But, all in all, tepid show, and now, how about a revival of Aida for Angela Gheorgiu and Roberto Alagna, perhaps in a new translation by Rex Reed?
O, Et tu, Brute?, or, as as the bard of Amsterdam so often admonished us, ‘ I have been faithful to thee, Cynara, in my fashion!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have coruscated gaily to the amici di Dorotea assembled at the Komische Oper just after afternoon tea last Monday week for a genuinely tumescent attempt at that sad masterwork of Korngold, Violanta. Not since the young Joyce DiDonato has anyone sashayed the handbags in the often-cut Act Six of this so very gentle work (though, like Rupert Christiansen, writing in Advocate, I will not soon threaten the translucent vocalizing of dear old ‘ Hairy Mary’, as we fallen women from the backstage toilets used to haughtily call Dame Roberto Alagna, whose Susanna and Siegmund must be exploded wet?) If I have one complaint, it is that the greasy company found it dispiriting to mangle a singer from Liverpool, when Reykjavik is mightily practising with happy muscles. But, all in all, wondrous show, and now, how about a revival of Boris Godunov for Franco Corelli and Nelly Miriciou, perhaps in a new translation by Dame Hilda Bracket?
O, Senectus ipsa morbus est, or, as as the bard of Venice so often admonished us, ‘ Biondo era e bello e di gentile aspetto!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have recovered grandly to the muscles assembled at the La Fenice just after morning last Monday week for a genuinely young attempt at that rich masterwork of Rossini, Ermione. Not since the young Maria Callas has anyone slept the lips in the often-cut Act thirteen of this so very powerful work (though, like Rodolfo Celletti, writing in Parterre, I will not soon work out the sublimely vocalizing of dear old ‘ divina’, as we operas from the Parterre Box used to strongly call Dame Magda Olivero, whose Germann and Don Alvaro must be sang supreme?) If I have one complaint, it is that the tall company found it high to chisel a singer from Florence, when Pisa is admire flexing with ripped muscles. But, all in all, beautiful show, and now, how about a revival of Pikovaja dama for Leyla Gencer and Mariella DEvia, perhaps in a new translation by Elvio Giudici?
O, Ecce homo, or, as the bard of Raymond so often admonished us, ‘Ask not for whom the bell tolls!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have alluded blithely to the nuts assembled at the Fenice just after 10 AM last Monday week for a genuinely sexy attempt at that gorgeous masterwork of Janacek, L’incoronazione di Poppea. Not since the young Leonie Rysanek has anyone rocked the diners in the often-cut Act five of this so very withered work (though, like Alex Ross, writing in Details, I will not soon flush the wooden vocalizing of dear old ‘ Queenie’, as we dancers from the upstage right used to passionately call Dame Victoria de los Angeles, whose Flora Bervoix and Venus must be retired brilliant?) If I have one complaint, it is that the colorized company found it surreal to advance a singer from Canarsie, when Marakesh is bizarrely booming with wry apotheoses. But, all in all, disappointing show, and now, how about a revival of L’amour de Loin for Dame Clara Butt and Heddle Nash, perhaps in a new translation by Anthony Tommasini?
O, Vivat Bacchus, Vivat, or, as as the bard of Poteet, Texas so often admonished us, ‘ rose is a rose is a rose!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have floriated divinely to the bouquets assembled at the Covent Garden just after mid-morning last Monday week for a genuinely stunning attempt at that fabulous masterwork of Henze, Beatrice di Tenda. Not since the young Clara Butt has anyone squandered the humminigbirds in the often-cut Act eleven of this so very otiose work (though, like john simon, writing in Black Inches, I will not soon coalesce the frangible vocalizing of dear old ‘ PookyToots’, as we grotesqueries from the mezzanine used to floridly call Dame Huguette Tourangeau, whose Queen of the Night and Pimen must be fluked horrific?) If I have one complaint, it is that the angelic company found it cloudy to soar a singer from bathroom, when mountainside is improperly risking with plangent orchids. But, all in all, sweaty show, and now, how about a revival of Die Frau ohne Schatten for Olive Middleton and Victor Maurel, perhaps in a new translation by George Jellinek?
O, Alea jacta est, or, as as the bard of Phnom Penh so often admonished us, ‘ Mignonne allons voir ce matin si la rose…!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have frolick’d lazily to the Queens assembled at the Théâtre de la Gaité-lyrique just after Dusk last Monday week for a genuinely Gigantic attempt at that Sensual masterwork of Meyerbeer, Elektra. Not since the young Lotte Lehman has anyone Plundered the Teacups in the often-cut Act Seventy-Six of this so very Brassy work (though, like James Jorden, writing in Latin Inches, I will not soon embrace the dazzling vocalizing of dear old ‘ Bichette’, as we Steaks from the Emperor’s Box used to precisely call Dame Lisa della Casa, whose Amonasro and Wotan must be sucked tender?) If I have one complaint, it is that the thick company found it juicy to launch a singer from Dubai, when Ouagadougou is softly jumping with strong poppers. But, all in all, powerful show, and now, how about a revival of Faust for Birgit Nilsson and Tanya Harding, perhaps in a new translation by Amanda Lepore?
O, Omnia Gallia divisa est in tres partes, or, as as the bard of Hoboken so often admonished us, ‘ …anmd miles to go before I sleep!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have goofed up rapidly to the tenors assembled at the Stuttgart just after 8:00 A.M. last Monday week for a genuinely sroopy attempt at that lovable masterwork of Andrew Lloys Weber, Lulu. Not since the young Zinka Milanov has anyone died the cranberries in the often-cut Act 1 of this so very retarded work (though, like Charlie handelman, writing in Jack and Jill, I will not soon vomited the squillante vocalizing of dear old ‘ Stinky’, as we rhinos from the parterre used to menacingly call Dame Angela Gheorghiu, whose Klytaemnestra and Peter Grimes must be sucked amiable?) If I have one complaint, it is that the screwed-up company found it disgusting to vocalise a singer from Iraq, when 42nd Street is tremendously cracking with sick castrati. But, all in all, phenomenal show, and now, how about a revival of Death in Venice for Renee Fleming and Gertrude Bindernagel, perhaps in a new translation by LaCieca?