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February 27, 2004

Spamlet Act I Scene IV

I wrote a short spoof of Hamlet which I used to bash a troll in this Rott thread. I didn't post the whole act because I don't want to eat up the Emperor's bandwidth, and I hadn't written the rest yet. Here's all of Act I Scene IV in it's entirety.

Act I. Scene IV.
Scene IV.—The Rottweiler.

Enter SPAMLET, ORATIO, and CLUELESS.

Spamlet. The blog bites shrewdly; it is very bold.
Oratio. It has a nipping and an eager air.
Spamlet. What thread now?
Oratio. I linked it back there.
Clueless. No, it is stuck.
Oratio. Indeed? I tried it not: then it must be my linkage
Wherein the HTML spell’d its pointer wrong.
[A flourish of dings, and edits dashed off, within.]
What’s on the screen, my ‘tard?
Spamlet. The king doth wake to-night and makes his grouse,
Keeps assailing, and with swinging bats - springs rants;
And, as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down,
The war-drum and trumpet thus bray out
The triumph of his liege.

Oratio. Is it a custom?
Spamlet. Ay, marry, is't:
But to my mind,—though I am naive here
And of any manners shorn,—it is a custom
More honour'd in the speech than the observance.
This heavy-headed bloggage feast is a test
Makes us traduc'd and laugh'd on other pages;
They clepe us drunkards, and with rhymish phrase
Soil our convictions; and indeed it takes
From our conceitments, though perform'd at height,
The pith and marrow of our hack rebukes.

So, oft it chances in particular men,
That for some capricious whim of nature in them,
As, in their mirth,—wherein they are not guilty,
Since humour cannot choose its origin,—
By the o'ergrowth of some reflection,
Oft breaking down the pales and forts of treason,
Or by some tidbit that too much o'er-leavens
The norm of plaintive spammers; that these men,
Carrying, I say, the stamp of one project,
Being nature's anti-liberals, or fortune's star,
Their virtues else, be they as clear as space,
As infinite as man may come to know,
Shall of the general concensus take umbrage
From that particular fault: the dram of Real
Doth quench the ignoble substance of doubts,
To his own awakening.

[Enter Host]

Oratio. Look, my ‘tard, it comes.
Host..
Citizens and ministers of truth defend us!
Be thou a citizen of insight or vile troll damn'd,
Bring with thee airs from Hanson or blasts from Marx,
Be thy intents sickening or meritable,
Thou posteth in such a questionable way
That I will speak to thee: I'll call thee Spamlet,
Troll, blatherer, royal Pain: O, answer me!
Let me not repost in ignorance; but tell
Why thy scandalized tones, versed in dread,
Have lost their certainty; why the sepulchre,
Wherein we saw these lame arguments quietly inurn'd,
That holdst these ponderous and hackney’d yarns,
To cast thee up again. What may this mean,
That thou, dead meme, again just complete swill
Revisit'st us thus more glimpses of the loon,
Making trite assertions; and we jewels of clarity
Post hurridly to rake your composition
With thoughts beyond the reaches of our trolls?
Say, why is this? wherefore? what did you spew?

[The HOST beckons SPAMLET.]

Oratio. It beckons you to drift away with it,
As if it some impartment did desire
To you alone.
Clueless. Look, with what spurteous action
It waves you to a more enclued topic:
But do not go with it.
Oratio. No, by no means.
Spamlet. It will just screech again; but I will follow it.
Oratio. Do not, my ‘tard.
Spamlet. Why, what should be the fear?
Do I not rent my mind at a pin's fee;
And for my soul, what can it do to that,
Being a thing so useless to myself?
It waves me forth again; I'll follow it.
Oratio. What if it tempt you toward Drudge, my ‘tard,
Or to the dreadful summing up of Den Beste
That needles o'er his case into the deep,
And there you’ll assume some other horrible meme,
Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason
And draw you into madness? think of it;
The very place puts Atrios to desperation,
Our leader of motive, though dim of brain
That posts so many blatherings to the web
And deals his facts unchecked.
Spamlet. It waves me still. Go on, I'll follow thee.
Clueless. You shall not go, my ‘tard.
Spamlet. Hold off your hands!
Oratio. Be rul'd; you shall not go.
Spamlet. My fate cries out,
And makes each needy neuron in this body
As tardy as the scarecrow’s frying nerves.
[Host beckons.]
Still am I call'd. Unhand me, gentlemen,
[Breaking from them.]
By heaven! I'll make a post on him that lets me:
I say, away! Go on, I'll follow thee.
[Exeunt Host and SPAMLET ]
Oratio. He waxes desperate with imagination.
Clueless. Let's follow; 'tis not fit thus to obey him.
Oratio. Have after. To what issue will he come?
Clueless. Something is blogged by the Rottweiler from Denmark.
Oratio. Heaven will direct it.
Clueless. Nay, let's follow him.
[Exeunt.]

February 27, 2004 in trollSongs | Permalink

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Comments

This is the funniest post I have ever read. Including every post Frank J ever did. Sorry Frank J.

Posted by: Mollbot at Feb 27, 2004 10:10:24 AM

Thanks very much!!! That's certainly high praise! I'll be here all week. Try the veal, it's excellent! (to steal a phrase from BC :) ).

Posted by: George Turner at Feb 27, 2004 2:25:31 PM

brevity is the soul of wit,
and this wit is writ true.

Posted by: steve h at Apr 12, 2004 8:39:53 AM

Hello,
I have already seen it somethere...

Have a nice day
AlexAxe

Posted by: AlexAxe at Mar 15, 2009 6:13:20 PM