Spamlet: Act II
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"Okay," I says to the Ghost of Christmas Past. "Now you're going to give me shit too?"
"Look," he points out. "The 'Ghost of Christmas Past' wasn't in Hamlet. And why the hell would I try and give everyone the Christmas Spirit in June? I'm supposed to be in the Bahamas!"
"That's why he picks you up in the stealth bomber right before the duel with Hitler's Robotanks," I says, losing patience. "You know, why don't you try doing a little homework first, lil miss 'Negative Nancy'? It's all right there in my first draft."
"Sir?" a shrill voice yells up to the window. "Sir, are you there?"
I flip open the shutters, and look six stories down onto the sidewalk. "See?" I says.
"It's Tiny Tim," scowls the ghost, perplexed. "What is he doing here?"
"This is the part when the crippled poor kid mooches a Christmas turkey off of newly-redeemed Hamden-"
"Hamlet," the ghost corrects. "And the character you are referring to is actually Ebenezer Scrooge."
"Hang on there boy!" I yell out the window. "Ebenezer Scrooge wasn't in 'Hamlet' dumbass," I says, turning to the ghost. "And Predator Press isn't about 'accuracy'. It's about making sure that the moral of the story is conveyed intact." I lean down into my deep-freezer, and produce a 70-pound frozen turkey. "Wow," I grunt. "This thing must have been a damn Pterodactyl!"
"Hurry sir," Tiny Tim calls faintly. "I'm getting weak from malnutrition, and I think one of my crutches is about to break!"
"I'm coming you impatient little shit! Now shut the fuck up before you piss off my neighbors! I'm busy." Struggling with the slippery turkey, I set it on the edge of the freezer. "I'll bet that little prick is going to be a real pain in the ass once Hitler turns him into a nuclear cyborg."
"So what exactly is the moral in Shakespeare's Hamlet?" the ghost asks.
"See, Omelet-"
"Hamlet."
"Would you stop interrupting me when I'm trying to answer your questions?"
"Sorry."
"Help me get this thing up on the windowsill, okay? In this adaptation, Hansel, the main character, is deeply-wounded mostly because his sister Gretel is in love with his mother Ediplex. Plus she's like this really messy eater ... every time they have a picnic, there's like breadcrumbs all over the place. This pisses off the cops, and gets them fined like a million dollars by the EPA."
"You've never even read Hamlet, have you?"
"Sure I have," I reply.
"Is that it, sir?" calls up the boy excitedly.
"You betcher bony crippled ass it is, Rick!" I yell down. "Are you ready?"
"Yes sir!" cries Tiny Tim, arms outstretched.
"Wait," says the ghost. "You're not going to-"
"Here goes!" I cry, pushing the turkey smoothly over. "Four seconds remaining in the game, and Green Bay is up by four; LOBO sees an open man in the End Zone--!"
"I got it!" cries Tim. "I got i-!"
Suddenly, there's this thick, wet thud.
"It's complete!" I cry, shooting my arms up in the air. "Home run! LOBO wins it! The crowd goes wild!" Shaking my fist in celebration, I jog victoriously in a little circle while simulating a raspy crowd noise in my throat. "In your face, Brett Favre!"
"You killed him!" cries the ghost from the window.
"What? Nah. Look." I says, pointing at a twitching shoe surrounded by a growing pool of blood. "He's still moving. He's fine. Stuff like this builds much-needed character in today's uncultivated youth."
"Well he's leaking 'character' all over the place," says the ghost.
"Hey, along with all that great parking, a little rain must fall. And sometimes that rain comes in the form of big gigantic frozen turkeys. Is it my fault this place isn't wheelchair accessible? You heard him: he had crappy crutches; this was bound to happen eventually."
"So you're saying a 70-pound frozen turkey falling six stories on a crippled, starving boy was most likely inevitable."
"No, I suggested potato salad, or maybe coleslaw. The turkey was his idea."
"So you're merely the medium through which the 'Hand of Destiny' works?"
"Yep. Act of God. This happens all the time around the North Pole. You're just walking around minding your own business, you know, building igloos and clubbing baby sea lions, and suddenly a flock of indigenous turkeys succumb to hypothermia while flying overhead. Then wham. It's all over. Entire villages are wiped out. It's tragic."
"And this relates to Hamlet how, exactly?"
"Who?"
[LOBO]
"Okay," I says to the Ghost of Christmas Past. "Now you're going to give me shit too?"
"Look," he points out. "The 'Ghost of Christmas Past' wasn't in Hamlet. And why the hell would I try and give everyone the Christmas Spirit in June? I'm supposed to be in the Bahamas!"
"That's why he picks you up in the stealth bomber right before the duel with Hitler's Robotanks," I says, losing patience. "You know, why don't you try doing a little homework first, lil miss 'Negative Nancy'? It's all right there in my first draft."
"Sir?" a shrill voice yells up to the window. "Sir, are you there?"
I flip open the shutters, and look six stories down onto the sidewalk. "See?" I says.
"It's Tiny Tim," scowls the ghost, perplexed. "What is he doing here?"
"This is the part when the crippled poor kid mooches a Christmas turkey off of newly-redeemed Hamden-"
"Hamlet," the ghost corrects. "And the character you are referring to is actually Ebenezer Scrooge."
"Hang on there boy!" I yell out the window. "Ebenezer Scrooge wasn't in 'Hamlet' dumbass," I says, turning to the ghost. "And Predator Press isn't about 'accuracy'. It's about making sure that the moral of the story is conveyed intact." I lean down into my deep-freezer, and produce a 70-pound frozen turkey. "Wow," I grunt. "This thing must have been a damn Pterodactyl!"
"Hurry sir," Tiny Tim calls faintly. "I'm getting weak from malnutrition, and I think one of my crutches is about to break!"
"I'm coming you impatient little shit! Now shut the fuck up before you piss off my neighbors! I'm busy." Struggling with the slippery turkey, I set it on the edge of the freezer. "I'll bet that little prick is going to be a real pain in the ass once Hitler turns him into a nuclear cyborg."
"So what exactly is the moral in Shakespeare's Hamlet?" the ghost asks.
"See, Omelet-"
"Hamlet."
"Would you stop interrupting me when I'm trying to answer your questions?"
"Sorry."
"Help me get this thing up on the windowsill, okay? In this adaptation, Hansel, the main character, is deeply-wounded mostly because his sister Gretel is in love with his mother Ediplex. Plus she's like this really messy eater ... every time they have a picnic, there's like breadcrumbs all over the place. This pisses off the cops, and gets them fined like a million dollars by the EPA."
"You've never even read Hamlet, have you?"
"Sure I have," I reply.
"Is that it, sir?" calls up the boy excitedly.
"You betcher bony crippled ass it is, Rick!" I yell down. "Are you ready?"
"Yes sir!" cries Tiny Tim, arms outstretched.
"Wait," says the ghost. "You're not going to-"
"Here goes!" I cry, pushing the turkey smoothly over. "Four seconds remaining in the game, and Green Bay is up by four; LOBO sees an open man in the End Zone--!"
"I got it!" cries Tim. "I got i-!"
Suddenly, there's this thick, wet thud.
"It's complete!" I cry, shooting my arms up in the air. "Home run! LOBO wins it! The crowd goes wild!" Shaking my fist in celebration, I jog victoriously in a little circle while simulating a raspy crowd noise in my throat. "In your face, Brett Favre!"
"You killed him!" cries the ghost from the window.
"What? Nah. Look." I says, pointing at a twitching shoe surrounded by a growing pool of blood. "He's still moving. He's fine. Stuff like this builds much-needed character in today's uncultivated youth."
"Well he's leaking 'character' all over the place," says the ghost.
"Hey, along with all that great parking, a little rain must fall. And sometimes that rain comes in the form of big gigantic frozen turkeys. Is it my fault this place isn't wheelchair accessible? You heard him: he had crappy crutches; this was bound to happen eventually."
"So you're saying a 70-pound frozen turkey falling six stories on a crippled, starving boy was most likely inevitable."
"No, I suggested potato salad, or maybe coleslaw. The turkey was his idea."
"So you're merely the medium through which the 'Hand of Destiny' works?"
"Yep. Act of God. This happens all the time around the North Pole. You're just walking around minding your own business, you know, building igloos and clubbing baby sea lions, and suddenly a flock of indigenous turkeys succumb to hypothermia while flying overhead. Then wham. It's all over. Entire villages are wiped out. It's tragic."
"And this relates to Hamlet how, exactly?"
"Who?"
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