I was scrolling through some old, old writings that I composed primarily for the amusement of myself and my best friend from college when I came across this piece from ~2000 where I riffed off of Hamlet. It is not a serious piece, but perhaps it'll reveal a different mindset, as this was written before I moved to Florida, before I changed careers, before a lot of other sobering life events. Sometimes, silliness should be celebrated, so here goes:
To be or not to be, that is a silly question,
since you have to be before you can not be.
Who cares if it is nobler in the mind to suffer
the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
because they still hurt (sticks and stones may
break my bones...). If you do decide to take
arms, that will leave many people without their
upper limbs. And why would you take their arms
to a sea of troubles and by opposing (what,
BTW, are you opposing?) end them. Isn't this a
waste of arms. To die, to sleep, no
more...what kind of nonsense is this? Of
course if you die, you don't sleep anymore,
since that is what live people do. Besides,
how can any sleep end heartache and a thousand
natural shocks that flesh is heir to? Pretty
damn impossible for a few hours of nap time to
me...And why in hell is that a consummation
devoutly to be wished? I like sleep as much as
most people, but really it is overrated...Then
Bill gets freaky and tries to get jiggy withit.
"To die, to sleep; to sleep, perchance to
dream. Ay, there's the rub, for in that sleep
of death what dreams may come, when we have
shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us
pause." Damn right it must give us pause to
ponder this crap. When I dream, I most
definitively am not thinking about mortal coils
(whatever those damn things might be...) and no
dream is going to shuffle me off anywhere
anytime soon...And how in hell does all of
Bill's blather led to the respect that makes
calamity of so long life. Bill's mind is a
terrible thing to waste. I think he needs to
take a chill pill, as the next paranoiac passage
indicates: "For who would bear the whips and
scorns of time (is time a sadist here?), th'
oppressor's wrong (bitter man), the proud man's
contumely (a proud man's what?!?!?!?), the
pangs of despised love (guess Bill hasn't been
getting any for a while...), the law's delay
(while I might feel your pain here, stop your
bitching...)the insolence of office (absolute
power [not vodka] corrupts absolutely...), and
the spurns that patient merit of th' unworthy
takes, when he himself might his quietus make
(to put it bluntly) with a bare bodkin (getting
violent on your ass...)?" Seems like Bill
needs some therapy, pronto. It gets worse:
"Who would fardels (fardels, is that a type of
flatulence?) bear, to grunt and sweat (like pigs
in heat???) under a weary life (I suppose it
would get boring after a while...), but that
the dread of something after death (the
afterlife, maybe?), the undiscovered country
(Los Angeles) from whose bourn (bourn??? to
whom was he/she bourn?) no traveler returns
(guess that passageway is a wee bit too small),
puzzles the will (some people just don't get
it, do they?), and makes us rather bear those
ills we have (I'm disease-free, thank you very
much...) than fly (why not walk) to others that
we know not of?" Sick bastard isn't he.
However, Bill saves the best (or worst) for
last: "Thus conscience makes cowards of us all
(speak for yourself, you pansy, have at
you!!!); and thus the native hue of resolution
(600 x 400?) is sicklied o'er (with a computer
virus of death, maybe?) with the pale cast of
thought (I always thought that my thoughts were
vibrant, since I used color-safe Cheer...), and
enterprises (rent-a-car or the space ship) of
great pitch (90 mph) and moment with this
regard their currents turn awry (what direction
is awry in?) and lose the name of action
(action, Jackson, satisfaction, can't get no
satisfaction...)" Thus Bill's soliloquy makes
my bowels weak with tepid commentary on the
human condition. For the clueless, this has
been my de-re-construction of Hamlet's speech
in Act 3, Scene 1 of Shakespeare's Hamlet.
Thank you and drive through.
P.S. This was a satirical parody. No
Shakespearean actors or actresses were harmed
in the writing of this bit.
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