You know the theory that a billion monkeys put to work on a billion typewriters will eventually bang out the complete works of Shakespeare.
It sort of makes sense. Likewise a hundred orangutans - taught keyboard skills and given two crates of bananas - would deliver the Resource Management Act (and its amendments) by five o'clock.
Our form 5 English teacher, a master of the non sequitur, touched on the billion monkey theory when teaching Hamlet's soliloquy, ''To Be or Not to Be''.
He was explaining that Shakespeare was the Bradman of English, a once in a language freak. But it is difficult to impress teenage boys.
''Sir, sir, they say Shakespeare's a fake and someone else wrote his stuff,'' interjected the class smartarse.
''So why didn't they check under his house for monkey skeletons? There must be truckloads.''
Teenagers have been taught Shakespeare since there was compulsory education, but two years ago we removed the usual essay on the Bard from NCEA Level Three English. (It was replaced by a question on The Hunger Games movies).
I'm unconvinced. Learning Shakespeare is a rite of passage, and the text is no more challenging than it was to our grandparents.
He's not simply a writer, he's a part of our language. Most of us can, unblinking, recite the first lines of ''To Be or Not to Be''. Within just 35 lines are no less than seven phrases that burned so deep they became everyday cliches.
''Conscience doth make cowards of us all; give us pause; death, the undiscovered country; the law's delay; shuffled off this mortal coil; ay, there's the rub.''
But the speech is also stuffed with dead words.
''Nymph in thy orisons; the proud man's contumely; with a bare bodkin.''
And the show stopper - the question to halt any debate - ''Who would fardels bear?''.
Indeed. Hamlet makes a sound point. To this day fardel bearing remains tiresome. But, go check. Shakespeare isn't easy theatre, and some productions make it harder.
In London I was given tickets to King Lear at The Globe - the replica of Shakespeare's theatre the Brits built on the banks of the Thames.
Whoopee! Panting with anticipation, we took our standing room places on the sawdust floor. But we didn't get Olivier or Gielgud, not even Derek Jacobi. We'd turned out for a totally wordless Lear, danced to full length by a Kathkali Indian troupe.
It was a sort of Mr Bojangles goes to Calcutta, but in its own mad way it was a tribute to the Bard's universality. We lasted 15 minutes, and learned another lesson about accepting freebies.
I left remembering my mate, Max, who got in deep at another Lear. The curtain came down, the actors took their bows, and were followed on to stage by the director and producer. As they too were cheered to the rafters, Max - a freckled redhead boy - climbed on to his seat and began calling for the real star.
''Author! Author! We want the Author!'' he chanted. Max was caned, of course, but thought it almost worth it. Shakespearean performance isn't dying, it has simply moved along. Shakespeare is the world's most successful screenwriter - he's such reliable box office, they've made more than 400 movies.
The toffier actors queue up to score a screen Hamlet role (can't wait for the Maggie Smith) but there have been other surprises. Like the bromidic Richard Chamberlain of Dr Kildare, and Mel Gibson for God's sake. (Actually, the Mad Max Hamlet is a ripper).
Even Arnold Schwarzenegger has an action movie with a Hamlet snippet. Its trailer bawled: ''Something is rotten in the state of Denmark - and Hamlet is taking out the trash.''
So with cinema's production dazzle, editing, and licence with the words, Shakespeare has found a medium which can cope with its age, and very well at that. Lionsgate, the entertainment company behind The Hunger Games, did two big money Shakespeares at the same time.
Teaching our kids English literature without Shakespeare may be easier, and seem modern, but it's a second rate approach to their education. In this case, the movie industry has shown more taste than our educators.
John Lapsley is an Arrowtown writer.
