translated and adapted

by William M. Razavi

PROFESSOR: Thank you. Thank you. Thank you so much for joining us. Good to see you here. Yes, yes. Wonderful. Superb. Great. Good. Good. Yes. Yes. Thank you so much for joining us tonight as we explore the Classical World. For those of you who are joining us for the first time what we do here is gather each week and discuss the latest research in Classical Studies, or what some lay-people like to call Ancient History.

PROFESSOR: If you still have questions about last week’s fascinating presentation on the new archaeological evidence on toilet scrubbing implements in the age of the Antonines there is a message board on the group website as well as several interesting links to archaeofecology websites.

Now, this week we have a special treat for you–one that will shake the ancient world.

As you know, for several years now we have been conducting archaeological excavations in Smyrna, but this past summer we managed to take a side trip to the center of our world–Athens–and it was while we were visiting the construction site for the Olympic Village that we made a remarkable discovery. This discovery was to set us on a road that will one day change everything we know about the golden age of Athenian culture.

For it was in one of those dusty pits that I–and a brave group of student assistants–discovered the remnants of a lost play of the great master of Greek Comedy, Aristophanes. Yes, it was quite amazing. While piecing together hundreds of pieces of broken pottery we were able to make out the words for this lost masterpiece.

After some months of painstaking work I am ready to present this material–and, in a departure from our normal format, I thought it would be a good idea for the world to see this piece again where it belongs–on a stage, performed by my able team of graduate assistants.

Now, if there are no questions–

A hand goes up in the audience.

WALDORF: I have a question.

PROFESSOR: Yes?

WALDORF: Why did anyone write a play on pieces of pottery?

PROFESSOR: I’m really glad you asked that question.

WALDORF: You don’t look glad.

PROFESSOR: I’m very glad.

PROFESSOR: Very…glad…Well, now without further ado–

WALDORF: Excuse me, Professor–

PROFESSOR: What is it?

WALDORF: You didn’t answer my question.

PROFESSOR: Yes, I did.

WALDORF: No, you didn’t.

PROFESSOR: I’m sure I did.

WALDORF: I’m sure you didn’t.

PROFESSOR: You must not have heard it.

WALDORF: You didn’t say anything.

PROFESSOR: Well, it doesn’t really matter now. No one really remembers the question anyway, so why don’t we just move on.

WALDORF: I asked you why it was that anyone wrote plays on pots.

PROFESSOR: Oh, that question, well, it must have, you know, slipped my mind.

WALDORF: Well?

PROFESSOR: Sometimes people who went to the theatre wanted to remember the words of a play and so when they went to the theatre they took plain pots with them and scribbled their favorite quotes on them. A few, very thorough people had the ability and the desire to write down all the words to the play–using larger more comprehensive pots, or, if they were wealthier employing several pots and sometimes a team of scribes.

WALDORF: So, they wrote on pots?

PROFESSOR: Yes.

WALDORF: Can you be sure that these pots make sense?

PROFESSOR: Well, you can be sure that a lot of painstaking research went into every line in every fragment. Obviously there’s no such thing as one-hundred percent, but a lot of experts have put their minds together and so as you’ll see, we’ve come up with something that makes plausible sense in the context of late fifth century Athenian culture.

Now, without further ado, I present my graduate assistants, Marianne, Wilbur, and Skip.

Take it away.

MARIANNE: Should we start now?

PROFESSOR: Yes, go ahead.

MARIANNE: Are you sure?

PROFESSOR: Yes. Go ahead.

MARIANNE: And now, presenting…Mooks by Aristophanes.

PROFESSOR: I should say a few words about the title. The fragments didn’t actually contain what we would consider a title page, but the play has a chorus of men referred to, collectively, as the Mookoi. We haven’t quite figured out who these Mooks were, but we certainly get the idea that they were the backbone of lower-middle class citizens in Athens and the port of Piraeus. The word itself is of uncertain etymology.

MARIANNE: Can we get on with the play now, Professor?

PROFESSOR: Yes, certainly. [Whispering] What’s wrong?

MARIANNE [Whispering]: What?

PROFESSOR [Whispering]: What’s wrong?

MARIANNE [Whispering]: Not now.

PROFESSOR [Whispering]: I thought you had something to say.

MARIANNE [Louder whispering]: Not now. I think we should do the play now.

PROFESSOR [Even louder whispering.]: Okay. [Normal voice] And now, without further ado, the Mooks of Aristophanes.

MARIANNE: Enter the Chorus of Mooks, separately.

PROFESSOR: This is where the two Mooks of the play enter.

WILBUR: Hey.

SKIP: Hey.

WILBUR: How’s it goin’, man?

WILBUR: Yeah.

SKIP: Yeah.

WILBUR: Hmmm.

SKIP: What?

WILBUR: Yeahh.

SKIP: Right.

WILBUR: So.

SKIP: Yeah.

WILBUR: You hear about that thing?

SKIP: Which one?

WILBUR: That thing with Cleon and those guys.

SKIP: Cleon. I hate that guy.

WILBUR: Yeah, well he’s not as bad as Harmodius.

SKIP: Yeah?

WILBUR: Yeah.

SKIP: What’s wrong with Harmodius?

WILBUR: Twelve bushels of grain and three hundred pots full of olive oil for a shipload of Asiatic wine.

WALDORF: What the hell was that?

PROFESSOR: That’s where the first fragment ends. It seems that there was some conflict over the importing of wine and the Attic olive oil trade.

WALDORF: It sounded like a receipt to me.

PROFESSOR: I’m sorry, where did you say you got your PhD?

Silence.

PROFESSOR: Now, our best guess is that Cleon’s unfavorable balance of trade ruined Athenian wineries for a generation.

WALDORF: Didn’t the war do that?

PROFESSOR: I’m sorry, didn’t I already put you in your place by touting my superior academic credentials? Did I neglect to mention Harvard and Yale?

PROFESSOR: Now, the next scene is apparently a common one from this Intermediate Old Comedy.

WALDORF: Excuse me, but what’s Intermediate Old Comedy.

PROFESSOR: It’s what came between Old Comedy and New Comedy.

WALDORF: What about Middle Comedy?

PROFESSOR: We’re not here to talk about Middle Comedy, we’re here to celebrate the discovery of the only Intermediate Old Comedy fragments we’ve ever scene. Now, this next scene is often called the panopticon.

WILBUR: Hey.

SKIP: Heyyyy.

MARIANNE: Hey, Mooks. What’s going on?

SKIP: Everything is waiting on the shipment of twelve goose eggs.

WILBUR: Yeah.

MARIANNE: Let’s chill.

MARIANNE: So, what do you mooks do?

WILBUR: Stuff.

SKIP: Yeah.

MARIANNE: Well…well…well…what’s my line?

PROFESSOR: You’ve got to be kidding me. Ask them about Cleon?

MARIANNE: What about Cleon?

WILBUR: I hate Cleon.

SKIP: Stupid Cleon.

WILBUR: Cleon.

SKIP: Cleon.

WILBUR: Cleon.

MARIANNE: Cleon’s my cousin.

WILBUR: I love Cleon.

SKIP: Cleon is a god.

WILBUR: If Cleon was a horse I’d ride him.

MARIANNE: I was just kidding.

WILBUR: I hate Cleon.

SKIP: Cleon sucks goats.

WALDORF: I don’t believe this.

PROFESSOR: The Greeks were quite raunchy…and feelings about Cleon were running high.

WILBUR: Cleon sucks, Cleon sucks.

MARIANNE: Alright you mooks, let’s groove.

WILBUR: Really?

MARIANNE: Yeah.

SKIP: Heyyyy.

WALDORF: What is this?

PROFESSOR: What?!

Pause.

PROFESSOR: Haven’t you ever seen a panegyric before?

WALDORF: That’s a panegyric?

PROFESSOR: Of course, we don’t have the music that Aristophanes would have used, but I think this is about what it would have been like.

WALDORF: Yeah, right.

PROFESSOR: You know, I’ve had just about enough of you and your willful lack of suspension of disbelief. Come on. You’re at a play…You sit down…People come on stage...they say things…they do things…You have to believe what the people on stage say…otherwise, what’s the point? If you’re not willing to go along with the whole premise of the exercise then you won’t be able to understand it, and where will that leave us? Nowhere, that’s where. If I say monkeys can fly, then monkeys can fly and that’s all there is to it.

WALDORF: Are you saying that monkeys can fly?

PROFESSOR: Ummm…no.

WALDORF: Isn’t it conceivable that the fragments you found didn’t belong together in one play? Or even in a play?

Pause.

PROFESSOR: Harvard, Harvard, Yale, Yale.

WALDORF: WHAT?

PROFESSOR: Harvard, Harvard, Yale, Yale. I don’t have to listen to what you’re saying.

PROFESSOR: Now, the next scene is called the parabasis. This is where Aristophanes, under the loose guise of a character, enters and makes some pronouncements ex officio.

WILBUR: Listen up, you mooks. Out whole way of life is being threatened. Our welfare is being threatened. Our mookitude is being threatened. And do you mooks know who’s digging this metaphorical ditch outside the walls for mooks like us? Cleon. When the poor mooks in Piraeus were begging for spare obols, who was lining his pockets with money from private shipping? Cleon. When the mooks in the dairy business lost all their goats in the war, who had all the cheese he could eat? Cleon. When Sicily went down the drain who thought it was a great idea to send the rest of our army there? Cleon. When hungry babies were crying who was laughing because he didn’t give a shit? Cleon. When people were eating three week old fish from the market who sold it to them? Cleon. When a hard-working mook can’t get a job, who helps him out? Not Cleon. Oh, no. He’s only got jobs for his own mooks–mooks who don’t even deserve to be called mooks. But who is it that promised us twenty drachmae each–in silver–if we put him in charge? Say it with me–Cleon! And who kept the silver for himself? That’s right…Cleon. And who promised us an obol a piece for showing up to court? Cleon. And who did we acquit? Cleon. And who ended up charging us three obols each to get into the theatre? Cleon. And he didn’t even give us the obols for saving his ass from the exile. Cleon. I hate Cleon. And Socrates, too. I hate that guy.

Milk, cheese, eggs, butter, meat.

WILBUR: What the hell was that?

ALL: Cleon?

MARIANNE: No, that was Harmodius. He’s joined up with the Dionysiacs.

WILBUR: No!

MARIANNE: Yes.

WILBUR: No!

MARIANNE: Yes!

WILBUR: Surely not?

MARIANNE: Surely.

WILBUR: That must be some wine.

MARIANNE: Here he comes again.

WILBUR: That’s pure decadence.

MARIANNE: Let’s play a mean trick on him. You know, just like in the ninth book of the Odyssey.

WILBUR: That sounds great.

SKIP: Mooks.

WILBUR: Ha ha ha.

MARIANNE: Ha-ha. Ha-ha.

WILBUR: Ha ha ha. Eo, eo.

MARIANNE: Ay, ay, ay.

WILBUR: Woo, woo, woo.

SKIP: Mooks.

WILBUR: How do you like my pie?

SKIP: What?

MARIANNE: How do you like his pie?

SKIP: Do you know who I am?

MARIANNE: You’re Harmodius.

SKIP: That’s right, I’m Harmodius. I own Athens. That’s not your pie. That’s my pie. Give it to me.

WILBUR: Okay.

WALDORF: WAIT!

PROFESSOR: What is it now?!

WALDORF: Are you trying to tell me that this…"play" just devolves into a classic piefight?

MARIANNE: It’s got a chase scene, too.

WALDORF: Oh.

PROFESSOR: Well?

WALDORF: That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard all night.

MARIANNE: Professor, you gave me a rash!