So, Walter Mondale shows up in heaven the other day, and I’m all eager to talk to him because I’m kind of a political junkie — see Richard III — but before I can say anything, he’s like, “So?” And I’m like, “So, what?” And then he goes, “So, did you really write them?” And I’m like, “Write what?” And he goes, “Your plays.” And I’m like, “What is this, some kind of Grant’s Tomb trick question? Of course I wrote my plays. Who did you think wrote them? Edward de Vere, the Earl of Oxford?” I say that as a joke because Edward de Vere is a moron — I once asked him to borrow a codpiece, and he gave me an actual piece of cod. But then Mondale is all, “Yes, I actually heard Edward de Vere did write them.” Mondale then fills me in on this whole crazy theory that I didn’t write my own plays.