by Regis Boff
When the Bard of Avon Mr. Shakespeare, awoke this very morning he stumbled into the notion “brevity” during the frying of his eggs. William 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archer, his new notion of immediately debuting himself, as the writer of the fewest words, had preserved them all as outdated.
“Let the world find its verbosity elsewhere than from me,” he says to himself, in his fresh and surprisingly truncated style. “For today, I pledge my pen to the reduction sauce of succinctness. I will soon be a gentleman who states all quickly, leaving the breadth of things to those who write with a pencil.
“Verily,” he snorts too loudly, for now his mother overhears, “ I will no longer desire a playwright’s theater. “Henceforth, my audience will stand and hunt for my “posts” that will be held by nails on trees. I will work in ‘Tweets’. My readers, upon whom I will waste ever fewer words will scramble as they must to keep up.
Hearing this vow from her perch just outside his doors, his mother, the severely long-winded, Mary Arden Shakespeare despaired mightily. Mary could trace her family’s windiness as linearly as an erection, backwards to the 1873 Doomsday Book. This book, of course, being England’s paramount exercise of pointless wordiness.
His mother dreaded that her precious Bill was about to splash into a puddle of abbreviated verbal sulkiness. She muttered, “I will offer my son a lethal lacking of breath before I will allow him an eternity of scanty verse.”
William however speeds by her, determined to end 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, hooked up in spite, have a scheme, R 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 my words now abide 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 known as my “ gruel tag.” My histories, poems, and essays will remain on my Facebook page or will be in my Blog.”