bastardsword

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.]

Spamlet

Ok, it's not a song, but it's still aimed at the trolls.

To bleat or not to bleat, that is the question.
Whether ‘tis rosier in the mind
To suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous putdowns
Or to flail arms against a cell of bubbas and by appeasing rim them?
To lie, to bleat: no more!
And by a bleat to say we end a fruitcake
And the thousand convicted cocks
That flesh is bared to.
To lie, to bleat; to bleat, perchance to scream:
Ay, there’s the rub:
For in that bleat of jest what screams may come
When we have suckled off his purple cod
Must leave us raw!

Spamlet, Act III, Scene II

New Nigerian Spammer

Ok, John Kerry's lover flees to Africa, and now I'm getting spammed with crap like this.

Hello & good day, The prompting of this letter is based on my genuine intention to establish a mutual business relationship with you. I got your contact during my search for a credible individual who can be of immense assisstance to my lover, former presidential candidate John Kerry and myself. For proper introduction, I am Miss Alex Polier, the earstwhile staffer for the Kerry campain, a journalist, and former cheerleader and lingerie model. You must have read in the news lately of how the press pressurised presidential candidate John Kerry, due to his confession of war crimes and obvious flip flopping on many issues, to step down and go into exile in Nigeria with his close associates, where I wait in vain for him. In line with this development we decided to set aside some money from his wife’s condiment fotune for safe keeping in western europe to take care of our future when we finally go into exile. For this (myself and Kerry) have the sum of $22.5(twenty two Million, five hundred thousand U.S Dollars) forwarded me $50 million dollars in monies from the Heinz corporation, which is sitting in europe intended for investment. I am soliciting your assistance in taking over the temporary owndership of the funds quickly because of the hunt by the press and his wife to frozen our bank accounts and confiscate our assets. All formalities in respect of your take over will be facilitated by a diplomatic contact in europe from the Kerry campain. We are willing to compensate you with a negotiable and satisfactory percentage of the funds for your coperation and assistance in this regard. If this information appeals to your positive response, do not hesitate to contact me via email address stated above so that further details will be unfolded to you asap. Finally, I sincerely apologise for encroaching into your privacy with this email. Yours faithfully, Alex Polier.

Instapundit

Here's a quick (5 to 10 minute) spoof of the Eagles "Desperado", aimed at Instapundit. I'm hoping to join the Alliance and fight is evil puppy blending ways.

Instapundit, why don't you come to your senses?
You been out-linkin' stories for so long now
Oh, you're a hard one
I know that you got some linkage
These hits that are pleasin' you
Can burn your account

Don't you maul the New York Times, boy
She'll beat you if she's able
You know the Telegraph is always your best bet

Now it seems to me, some fine things
Are arrayed upon your web page
But you only link to ones that we can't get

Instapundit, oh, you ain't gettin' no younger
Your fame and your hunger, they're drivin' your tomes
And geekdom, oh geekdom well, that's just some people farkin'
Your prison is blogging through this world on a phone

Don't your bleats get old in the winter time?
The styles we show and the fun headlines
It's hard to tell news “Nightline” from “Today”
You're loosin' all your highs and lows
Ain't it funny how the feeling goes away?

Instapundit, why don't you come to your senses?
Come down from those mensas, open the “Gate”
We may be flamin’, but there's a flame war around you
You better let somebody ping you, before it's third rate

Puppy Thief

This is my third spoof of the Beatles' Let It Be, aimed at the evil puppy blender, Instapundit.

When I find my site in times of trouble
Instapundit links to me
Seeking pearls of wisdom, puppy thief.
And in his tower of darkness
He is blending right in front of me
Mixing curs and A-1, puppy thief.
Puppy thief, puppy thief.
Mixing curs and A-1, puppy thief.

And when the broken hearted people
Cruising on the web agree,
They will have an answer, puppy thief.
For though he may blend puppies there is
Still a chance that they will flee
They will find an owner, puppy thief.
Puppy thief, puppy thief. Yeah
They will find an owner, puppy thief.

And when the shake is bloody
There is still a bite to grind his teeth,
Bite on until tomorrow, puppy thief.
I wake up to the pound pup smoothie.
Instapundit brings to me.
Liquid cocker spaniel, puppy thief.
Puppy thief, puppy thief.
Foaming curds in dog shakes, puppy thief.
Puppy thief, puppy thief.
Hell will be a spammer, puppy thief.

Screams

Here's another from Fleetwood Mac's Rumors, a spoof of "Dreams". After constantly hearing that we've sacrificied all our freedoms with the Patriot Act. I gets pretty looney watching endless national TV interviews with idiots who say they're being denied their right to speak. It was in that vein that I started this particular parody.

Now here you go again
You say you lost your freedoms
Well who am I to break it down
It's only right that you should
Say the way you feeeeel it
But listen carefully to the sound
Of your looniness
Like a 'tard bleat...drives you mad
In the shrillness and dementia of what you said
And what you post...
And what you said...
And what you post

Dumbass notions, crap is what you're saying
Fakers only love you when you're faking
Say... Leftists ...they are dumb and they are slow
When your brain washes 'em clean...you'll know

Now here I go again, citin' substantive sources
I link my sources in my post
It's only me
Who wants to bust up all your dreams and...
Have you any screams you'd like to yell?
Screams of looniness...
Like a 'tard bleat...drives you mad...
In the shrillness and dementia of what you said
And what you post
What you said...
And what you post

Dumbass notions, crap is what you're saying
Fakers only love you when you're faking
Say... Leftists ...they are dumb and they are slow
When your brain washes 'em clean...you'll know

Lunatic Spews

As long as I'm doing Fleetwood Macs Rumors, here's "Second Hand News" There's all kinds of phrases that would fit in this song. For a while my ending lines were "They're just hatin' those Jews", "They're cross postin' old news", "They're just lunatic views"

I know there's nothing to say
Moonbat has posted cut paste
When 'tards go bad
When 'tards post fluff
Won't you flay them for that Rall crap
And fisk their looney stuff

I know there's no linkin' they cruise
I know there's nothing to use
When 'tards go bad
And you can't shut them up
Won't you flay them for that Rall crap
And fisk their looney fluff

One thing I think 'tards should know
We ain't gonna miss them when they go
Been clowns so long
They've been tossed around like nuts
Couldn't you just
Let me mow down their oozing puss

I know they're gropin' to find
Someone who's gotta twisted Marxist mind
When 'tards go bad
when 'tards go nuts
Won't you flay them for that Rall crap
And fisk their looney fluff

How the lunatic spews
How the lunatic spews

You Make Fisking Fun

How about one from Fleetwood Mac's Rumors, "You Make Loving Fun"?

Cheap communist tool,
You are so daffy with the things you drool,
Oh, you will be toast,
Your scribblings follow me wherever I post.

I never did believe in fairy tales,
And I've a feeling the time is ripe.
I never did believe in the ways of Marxists,
And I'm beginning to fisk your tripe.

Don't, don't cut and paste,
It could be Pilger but I'll mow his shill,
You, you make fisking fun,
And I don't have to tell you you're the only one.

You make fisking fun
You make fisking fun

Misha Be Rude

Here's one for Darth Misha I, Emperor at the Anti-Idiotarian Rottweiler. I had to use some poetic license on the details.

He come from Copenhagen, close to Germany
Way back before the web back on the usenet rings
There stood a news grouping named Kingdom of Meow
Where lived a Danish boy named Misha B. Rude
He never ever yearned to scream or fight or yell
But he could flame a retard just like a ringing a bell

Go go
Go Misha go go
Go Misha go go
Go Misha go go
Go Misha go go
Misha B. Rude

He used to bury left canards in his newgroup pack
Then set up on the web with some well known tracts
All his peers would see him scribblin' in the shade
Thumpin' on the drivel that the liberals sprayed
And people passing by would stop and say
My my but that little Danish boy can flay

Go go
Go Misha go go
Go Misha go go
Go Misha go go
Go Misha go go
Misha B. Rude

Jew Lies

Here's some more Louis Armstrong, from the perspective of many of the ISM type trolls out there, who still think everything is a vast conspiracy.

Jew lies, flyin’ at me
Nothin’ but Jew lies do I see

Cluebirds singin’ a song
There’s nothin’ but cluebirds all day long

Seems like all the phrases are hurlin’ by
When you’re a nut, my how they fly

Those clue rays, all of them gone
Nothin’ but Jew lies from now on

(instrumental break)

Seems like all them phrases are hurryin’ by
Cause when you’re a nut, then my how they fly

Them clue rays, all of ’em gone
And there’s nothin’ but Jew lies from now on.