Twitter My Shakespeare

by Regis Boff

When the Poet of Avon, Mr. William Shakespeare, this very morning, stumbled into brevity, he recognized that all other English playwrights, a mostly sterile reservoir of idiots anyway, would soon be marinating in a morbid dread of him.
As change is the arrow that wounds all except the archer, the notion of premièring himself on this afternoon, as the writer of fewest words flung him into malicious merriment.
“Let the world find its verbosity elsewhere than from me,” he said in his innovative and truncated new style. I am now and forever will be a port-wine reduction sauce of succinctness.
“Genius is the tabernacle of the boiled down,” he gloated, ” I will leave the breadth of things to the freshmen.”
“Verily,” he boasted, (a tad loudly, for his mother, now overhears him while hiding behind his bedroom door), “and henceforth, my creations will be posted with nails onto trees in twenty-six words and less.
Hearing this vow, his mother, the severely verbal Mary Arden Shakespeare dismays. Mary, a woman who could trace her long-windedness as linearly as an erection, back to the paramount exercise of unnecessary human wordiness, “The Doomsday Book,” fears her son Billy maneuvering to splash into a puddle of abbreviated verbal sulkiness.
She slumps; legs splayed into a bunches of skirts, muttering miserably to herself, (wholly in Old English, to her credit), “I will not allow him an eternity of pithiness of verse.”
But Bill speeds by her determined to stop his life’s drudgery of taxing inventiveness before she can interfere.
“Romeo and Juliet,” was already redrafting in his mind as a love story that lasts only as long as a piece sassafras chewing gum.
“Romeo has the scheme, parents will be sorry; R. fucks everything up, big mess, The End,” was all it needed to be.
Shakespeare races to the Stratford’s Speaker’s corner to declare the new course for England’s scholarly conversation.
“Forever on,” Bill bellows to a gathering crowd of the muddy and toothless, “ My tragedies and comedies will come to you on trees as “Twits.”
“Be it known, that if it must be said, I will say it from inside the penitentiary of twenty-six letterings or less, all carrying 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.”