Tag Archives: hamlet

A Rose for Emily p3

Now ideally, I’d have waited to speak until something more eloquent, more fitting of a Lord than, “Well, shit,” had come to mind, but in the interest of full disclosure, I must concede: I’ve a terrible dust allergy, you see, and uttered the very first words that entered my head so as to overpower the growing sneeze I felt approaching. Can you imagine?

    “Ahhh-choo!”
    “Bless you.”
    “Thank you. Now where was I? Oh, right! Everybody’s fucking dead in what looks to be a massive, orgiastic blood bath! Oh man, did she gets the tits chopped off of her or—no, wait, that’s a man. How are you then, dear survivors of this batshit crazy massacre? By the way, now that everybody’s dead, I hereby declare myself as the undisputed sovereign ruler of your fair and primitive country. Now, who’s up for a game of cricket then?”

So you can see why “Well, shit,” was my preferred opener. When the left with the choice of coming off as an insensitive fascist bastard or just “kind of a prick,” I’m partial towards the latter option (and you would not believe how many times I’ve been faced with that decision. Trust me —kind of a prick is much the preferred path).

But really, if you look at the whole situation from a detached, objective point of view, it’s all rather hilarious. I’m serious. Think about it. Arrogant bastard prince (not literal bastard, mind you) of a neighboring country, one whose Daddy issues even have Daddy issues, shows up to conquer new land in the name of dear old Dad and finally prove himself to be a man and not something Daddy should have left on the toilet seat or Mommy’s back, and what happens? The whole damn royal court took care of the hard part and slaughtered each other, only moments before he arrives! Well that was easy then, wasn’t it? Especially since, if history is any indicator, my fighting prowess is about the equivalent of a limp dick on steroids— it might feel huge and manly, but at the end of the night, it’s still a limp dick. Not my limp dick, of course, but you get the idea.

And the most bitter irony? I never wanted to be any King at all. Hell, if it were up to me, I’d have never even come here in the first place. It smells awful, and everyone speaks with a wretched accent not unlike a retarded Russian child trying to speak Polish. No offense to the retarded Russian children, of course. Or you. It’s just that of all that lands that one could conquer, of all the places to claim in the name of your father, or any Father, Denmark would fail to rank on anybody’s Desert Island All-Time Top 5 Countries to Conquer, which, of course, people do often compose such lists and I of course have read most of these compositions.

A Rose For Emily p1

For Harry (assuming this finds you first):

Let me begin by saying that yes, I do realize that I’m kind of a prick. The kind of prick that rather enjoys fornicating with ethereal beings, I’m afraid to admit, but a prick such as that is a prick nonetheless. And while I had originally intended to address this at a later point, I feel it is important for me to reiterate these two things. One, it is not necrophelia, if for no other reason than the uninvolvement of a corpse, and two, don’t knock it until you try it. Moving on. As I’ve replayed the events of the past several months over and over again in my head, the actions in which I am about to partake have appeared to me, after careful consideration and several chalices of mead, as the only (vaguely) rational cure for the clusterfuck predicament in which we have found ourselves to be so entangled. Still, I am determined to commit this to paper before I fully execute this Final Solution (catchy name, is it not?), in hopes that perhaps some brilliant new clarity will awaken within me before that threshold is crossed and we’ve forfeit all opportunity to fall back.

That, or the more likely scenario, whereupon I finally realize that I am hardly more than a coward myself, and that to commit this whole grand narrative to paper is little more than a sad attempt to put off the inevitable; as I’m sure you’ve caught on by now, such careful and cautious decision making as this is hardly in character for a impetuous, headstrong (but goddamn handsome) prick such as myself. Rather, procrastination has often presented itself as one of my finer traits; even my destiny seems to carry it in great quantities and right along with that digression have gone all of my noble delusions of do-goodery.

Well, shit. So much for that fantasy.

Speaking of—of, “Well, Shit,” that is—I believe that phrase holds a wonderful place of importance in the history of my reign, as well as that of our relationship. So much so that perhaps before I go I shall declare a holiday of some sort in its honor. “National ‘Well, Shit,’ Day.’ Has a swell ring to it, does it not? Granted, there’s a bit much punctuation when you spell it out like that, and unfortunately, I’ve always felt that holidays should possess names that are crisp and succinct, and while I suppose I could simply declare it “Shit Day,” I fear that it lacks the same punch. And then of course the history books, presupposing they recall anything relating to my brief tenure on the throne, will dub me with some delightfully ridiculous nickname such as, “Lord Aleksander, the Shitheaded.”

On second thought, it would perhaps be desirable to go down in history as The Shitheaded rather than The Whiney Ghostfucker.

On third thought, perhaps I win either way. Where were we?