Hey, Shakespeare, Kiss My Ass!
You think you’re so great. “Look at me. I’m Shakespeare. Millions of high-school students read my plays and poems. I’m so cool. Every pretentious jerk with an accent yearns to play the characters in my works. I had sex with Gwyneth Paltrow. I wear this gay-looking collar and have a pointy goatee.” You know what I have to say to you, Shakespeare?
Kiss my ass.
I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this, because they’re mostly too busy kissing your ass, but your plays kind of suck. Your writing is really weak. I mean, “To be or not to be?” What the fuck does that mean anyway? Everyone seems to think it’s this deep existential question. I don’t get it. To be or not to be. It sounds like your wife gave you a kick in the Johnson. She should have given you a couple more, you overhyped buffoon.
I had this English teacher who used to suck your dick all the time in class. He’d say things like, “Do you see what he did here, class? Do you see? Shakespeare is being playful. It’s genius.” I’m looking up at this guy like, “What the hell is the matter with you? If crappy writing were state size, Shakespeare would be Alaska.” And that’s true. You would be Alaska, Shakespeare. And not the cool part with all the glaciers and oil and sled dogs, either. You’d be the Lame-ass part near Canada, you bald fuck.
Who the hell cares about the crap that you write about anyway? Power-hungry Scotsmen? Big fucking deal. Mistaken identity? Generic. Pissed-off women? Please. Talk to my girlfriend if you want to meet a shrew who’s always pissed off. I’ve met postal workers who are less wound up than my girlfriend. She’s like a D.M.V. employee who hasn’t had a break in three days. TAME THIS! You hack. A Midsummer Night’s Dream starring three fairies? Um, take that dopey collar you wear plus the fact that you dream about fairies and I’d be a little worried if I was your missus. I’ll tell you this: my midsummer nights’ dreams usually feature the girl who works behind the counter at the coffee shop and the beautiful Miss Ashanti. You heard me.
The only reason you are even published at all is because you wrote in the 14- and 1500s. There were what, 100, 150 people on the planet? Anyone could get published back then, even that no talent hack Sir Walter Scott. Don’t get me started on that guy. I hate him even more than I hate you. I also heard the Queen had a crush on you. I bet that didn’t hurt your writing career either. In fact, put you and your crappy-ass literature in any other society around the time you were alive and you’d probably have been stoned to death for heresy. And saved the world a good deal of wasted time from reading your bombastic tripe.
In conclusion, I only have two things to say to you: Kiss my ass.
And nice play, Shakespeare.