Midnite: Some Ado About Muchthing
William Shakespeare
born: Apr 23, 1564
died: Apr 23, 1616
SOME ADO ABOUT MUCH-THINGY
by Wllm. Shakealeg
(Heard from offstage, the voice of Slice, reciting...)
SLICE: Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by and idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Pilgrim and Idiot are putting out at the 11th green.
PILGRIM: Hear that, they're talking about you, buddy. You telling tall tales again?
IDIOT: I didn't tell it, I don't know what idiot he's talking about.
PILGRIM: Well, what I'm wondering is whether to use the Zephyr or the XD.
BARNES: Tough choice for this shot, brother.
Enter Slice, above stage left, observing the frisbee golfers.
SLICE: Fris-be, or not fris-be: that is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The flings and sorrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of water-hazards,
And by avoiding, end them. The lie: too steep;
No, more! and, by too steep to say we end
The headache and the thousand natural blonds
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. The lie, too steep;
Too steep? Perchance to scream! Ay, there's the rub;
For in that steeper death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffl'd off this mortal soil,
Must give us paws. (Meow!)
Pilgrim and Idiot pause to ponder these utterances of Slice.
PILGRIM: Paws? Yo, Slice, you can't play frisbee with paws, there, Jaws.
SLICE: It's Shakespeare, good fellows, and today is the anniversary of his death.
IDIOT: Death, death, always with the death. Can we not celebrate life for a change. Let's table this celebration until the good fellow's birthday.
SLICE: Very well, this we shall. In which case, lift your goblets, good fellows, today is Shakespeare's birthday.
PILGRIM: His birthday?
BARNES: Whose birthday?
SLICE: Shakespeare's, good people; born on this date.
IDIOT: You just said he died on this date.
SLICE: Just so.
PILGRIM: Born and died on the same day?
BARNES: Wait, he wrote all that junk in one day!
SLICE: Hardly, Barnes, and you blaspheme to refer thusly to his body of work. He was born April 23, 1564, and died on his birthday, April 23, 1616--after blowing out 52 candles, one might surmise.
IDIOT: Oh, it was a surmise party, great!
PILGRIM: Are you mad?
SLICE: That he is mad, 'tis true; 'tis true 'tis pity; And pity 'tis 'tis true.
BARNES: Wha...!?*#?
SLICE: Hamlet.
IDIOT: Well, now that you mention it I am hungry, I could use an omelet.
PILGRIM: Away, you scullion! (to Slice) Henry the Fourth!
IDIOT: Yes, a nice western omelet, with scullions.
SLICE: I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. (to Pilgrim) Julius Caesar.
IDIOT: Yes, and a nice Caesar salad on the side.
PILGRIM: Maybe your'e right, we probably ought to eat, all this talking is making me hungry. We can finish our round tomorrow.
SLICE: Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by and idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
IDIOT: Pilgrim, he's talking about me again.
PILGRIM: Oh shut up and shoot.
-CURTAIN-