Parody of Shakespeare's "Hamlet"

[witscr...@gmail.com]

From OMELET: A TRAGEDY OF BILL SHAKE-A-SPEARE

[Scene II]

Flourish of trumpets, rattles and tambourines. Enterunt Clintonius, King of Denmark; Gertie, Queen; Poltroonius, advisor, with his son Liartes; Omelet; Voltaicmon; and Cornoodlius.

CLINTONIUS: Now, we happeneth to think we're doing a good job, as the most decisive regent thou hast had these last some odd years. Sure sad were we to see the last one go, our dear dear oh dear brother, whose loss e'en now yet cram our heart, and do our kingdom rive apart; yet now is healing time and all woes must go. 'Tis unity we seek. We did marry his sister—my wife, now—so. Thus in death we laughed, ho ho, in marriage bed did boo hoo weep, in trade-off lay-off. Wait. Invert that. All's well that ends well. But now Fortinbrass, that dumb young ass, hast strongfully and fast gathered up a cast of minions to beseech recovery of his own dad's land, bethinking us distracted by our late king's fate, out of joint, confused of late. Well, joints have we aplenty. And what we aim to do is dis incover what his chump uncle, the Norway regent, may know and whateth not, and see if he'll check the grasping hand upon our sprawling land, or let it stand. To which decisive end a committee formed have we, headed up by thee, Cornoodlius, and thee, Voltaicmon, to negotiate accommodation, and so here's this note, which I bid thee both convey, most merry. Now hurry thither, and let him know we [care].

CORNOODLIUS, VOLTAICMON: The like to which in gracious kingly kind, shall we forsooth impend relay in all—

CORNOODLIUS: —good time.

VOLTAICMON: —we do.

CLINTONIUS: Great. Glad to hear it. Godspeed.

EXITE COORNOODLIUS AND VOLTAICMON OUTE.

An' now, young Liartes, whuss up wichyoo? Something on thy lips doth vergeth forth, a bird of inquiry that would chirp and bray, were 't unsuppressed. Let soar this equine eagle. Give voice to reason, that feathered reasoning unfold; let logic lay, we'll both grow mulish old. Have at thee! What want you do? Speak up, I say. Choo choo.

LIARTES: Good m'lord...

CLINTONIUS: Go on.

LIARTES: I would return to France, O Most Indubitable Majesty. I came to attend your coronation; and now, that's done. You're crowned. For that I left my studies, which I should wish be re begun.

CLINTONIUS: Hmmm...They speak in strangeous accent there, that parlez-vous, that recuser-moi. Oh well! What say on 't thy papa?

POLTROONIUS: Er...to tell true, I have awarded him most grievous leave to go, m'lord, as go he's surely going to. A go-go to go, that's gone, a goner for the goer. So much, lord, he's won, by tedious and importunate bitchings dire. I beg you then, release him. Sire.

CLINTONIUS: Be gone then. Hie thither hence, hither, thither, wherever, whatever.

LIARTES: Good king, you're more than kind.

CLINTONIUS: And now, to Omelet, my nephew and my son....

OMELET: [Aside; speaking such as none but audience may hear.] A little too much kin, and not quite kind by half. A sorry ratio. A disproportionate denominate to numerate, or I'm no pomegranate.

CLINTONIUS: Omelet, son, thou seemeth still sad about your father's death, yet it's been lo these many couple months: approaching two. What's the problemo? The man is dead, and dross. 'Tis still water under brackish bridge. Eternal sadness is the start of madness. Let it lay, lad.

OMELET: Easier done than said. (For thee.)

QUEEN GERTIE: Why buggest thou it so?! O Omelet, Omelet, Omelet, wherefore still grievest thou, Omelet? It's no uncommon thing, this dying. We all kick the bucket at some sprung time, shucking off this mortal coil to thus denatured go bouncing ga boing-boing, ga-boingetty-boing-boing into eternity, a slappy slinky slung. 'Tis common.

OMELET: Aye, most common. Common common common. A common spring, like unto the wound-up winter of my discontent.

QUEEN GERTIE: Then if such commonality it be, why seemeth it particular with thee?

OMELET: Seemeth? Seemeth, say thee? But my lady, a seeming is but seeming, not what's so. A seeming is what appearance outward show, whilst underneath, something else mays't grow. Say...I seem to be this, but I'm actually that. I seem to be Chris, but I'm actually Pat. That's seeming for you. And if all the world's a seeming, some artifice perceptual—why then our goose is cooked, an' all knowing ineffectual. Let me seem what I am, and all that I am, an' there an end. As for the outward force of calm, the inward whirl, the regal outward state, yet inward churl; that's not me, but such as others be. Yea, the flood of tears, the dullish gaze, the twitching leers, the pukish phase—could all be faked and gussied up for show, zealous mourning on the rocks, as we'd well to know. But my grief is real, and mine own, no trapping suit of woe. I respect not seem, nor any seam do sew.

QUEEN GERTIE: All right then, you are particular. Particular indeed!

CLINTONIUS: He's particular particular.

QUEEN GERTIE: If scrambled eggs could talk, an Omelet would they be!

CLINTONIUS: Of ham and cheese. [Aside.] I'll say this for him. 'Tis a dish with a sprig o' holly on 't. [To Omelet.] We laud thee thy sincere lament, which sure we be is sure well meant. That's your bent, most heaven-sent. But...now, relent. For t'allow eaternal vent to so rageous 'plent is to the gods impious, to this crown anent annoying. It's sweet, the way you burble for your daddy. No, really. Touching. We loved him too. I was his brother. Message: I care. I knew him longer than you did. But you must know your father lost a father, who had lost his, and that one too, and so before him, and that one also, and his one prior, and so ad infinitum, the lot entire. Mourning is good: yes. Gnashing of teeth is fine. For a while. Granted. All right. But that while is up. Stop crying. It's getting cloying. Be a man. Your dad is dead. So are many other men. It happens. We laugh. We cry. We live. We die. I don't know why. Accept it. Try. Defy, and you but offend God, nature (the grass, the trees, the rocks, the bees, the flies), the regulations of our state, thy own seeming better self. Forsooth, each very quark and fiber of the universe, its each jiggling protean proton, doth cry instantient out, "This must be so!" Ah, eh? All weakening, decay, disintegration, corpuscular inanition, the last ragged pointless wretched gasp, the rigor mortis—verily conspire to deport us. And so an end. Why then contend it? Buck up, Puck. Get a grip, Chip. You'll reign some day, and a raining reign reaps but wet hay. Now, as for your request to journey out of town for school, we beseech thee not, such being most retro-reverse to our desire. Stay here and observe events unwind, like some unthreading sinister spool, instead. That'd be better.

COURTIER ONE: Well-spoke, m'lord!

COURTIER TWO: 'Twas a speech to die for.

Continued...
amzn.to/vDJugV


###