by Regis Boff
When the Bard of Avon, Mr. Shakespeare, awoke this very morning and stumbled into brevity during his eggs, he much appreciated that all other English playwrights, if indeed any of them should even be flattered with that category, would soon be marinating in a dish of morbid dread. As Change is the arrow that wounds all except the archer, his new notion of immediately debuting himself, as the writer of the fewest words, had pickled them all.
“Let the world find its verbosity elsewhere than from inside me,” he says to himself, in his fresh and surprisingly truncated style. “Today, I pledge my pen to the red-wine reduction sauce of succinctness. I will soon be a gentleman who states all in the brief and leaves the breadth of things to those who write with pencil.
“Verily,” he snorts, (a tad too loudly, for his mother now overhears), “I will no longer even covet an ‘audience’, for after all is said, ‘What indeed is an audience?’ They are simply spectators, distinguished purely by the good luck of finding a seat in my theatre. No, henceforth, they will stand and hunt for my posts on trees and they shall be all be called ‘Tweeters’, merely followers, upon whom I will waste ever fewer words.”
Hearing this vow from her perch just outside his doors, his mother, the severely long-winded, Mary Arden Shakespeare, a woman who could trace her own verbosity as linearly as an erection, backwards to the Doomsday Book, the paramount exercise of pointless wordiness, feels her lifetime toil of helicoptering her son, about to crash into a puddle of his abbreviated verbal sulkiness. She is slumped; legs splayed into her bunched nest of skirts, muttering pathetically to herself, (wholly in Old English, to her credit),” “I will offer my son a lethal shortness of breath before I will allow him an eternity of briefness of verse.”
William speeds by her, determined to conclude his life’s drudgery of taxing inventiveness before she can interfere, as she will want to do.
“Romeo and Juliet,” was already redrafting itself in his mind as a love story that lasts only as long as the flavor of a wad of sassafras chewing gum. “#Met @Romeo today, parents way unimpressed, hook’d up anyway, have scheme, but R. is really stupid, fucks everything up, big mess”
Shakespeare races to Stratford’s speaker’s corner to announce his new course for England’s scholarly conversation. “Tweets,” he shouts to an ever-gathering crowd of the muddy and toothless, “will transport my tragedies and my comedies to you useless scum. Be it known, that if it must be said, I will say it from inside the penitentiary of a “Tweet,” that is, one hundred and forty letterings or less. I will nail my tweets to this tree as I fashion them; I will stamp each with a dollop of gruel for authenticity, henceforth to be understood as my “gruel tag.” My histories, poems, and essays will remain on my Facebook page or will be posted in my Blog.”