Tag Archives: william shakespeare

Daily Discussion with BQB – What is your favorite Shakespeare Play?

Good morning 3.5 readers.

Did you know that this year marks the 400th anniversary of Shakespeare’s death?

Too soon, Bill. Too soon.

As you avid 3.5 readers may be aware, the Shakes-meister is a friend to the Bookshelf Battle Blog.

When I died on the toilet after eating a lightning infused toaster pastry, I met him in the afterlife. He was assigned to be my spiritual guide.

But enough of my bragging.  The next time I talk to Billy Shakes (he still calls me from time to time, it’s a little creepy) which one of his plays should I tell him is your favorite?

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BQB and the Meaning of Life – Part 3 – A Place Between Heaven and Hell

PREVIOUSLY ON BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER AND THE MEANING OF LIFE…

PART ONE – “Oh no!  I ate a pop tart full of concentrated lightning then died whilst on the commode!”

PART TWO – “What?  Why am I in a 1930’s speakeasy?”

“Say!  Who’s this gal who keeps plying me with booze?”

“And who the heck is this bald bearded guy in the cod piece that won’t shut up?”

AND NOW BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER AND THE MEANING OF LIFE CONTINUES…

Shakespeare digs Skyfall.

Shakespeare digs Skyfall.

“William Shakespeare, at your service,” the man said as he outstretched his hand toward me. I just stared at it.

“Mr. Bookshelf, ’tis an old custom for two parties who have just met to grasp one another’s hands and shake them up and down in a vigorous manner for the purpose of demonstrating that neither party is holding a weapon that could be used to disfigure or maim the other party, thus establishing a sense of trust.”

“Oh right!” I said as I shook his hand. “It’s honor to meet you, Mr. Shakespeare!”

“Please. Just call me Bill.”

“OK Bill,” I said. “Wait. How do you know my name?”

“I read your tenth grade term paper about me for Mrs. Houlihan’s English 101 Class.”

“Seriously?” I asked.

“Don’t be flattered,” Bill said. “One of the many magical powers you receive in the afterlife is the ability to instantly know what anyone anywhere in the world is saying about you at any time. For the average person, it is manageable. Maybe your Cousin Irene or Uncle Bob occasionally say something nice about you…or something bad about you as the case may be.”

I sucked on my beer helmet straw, riveted to every word my new acquaintance was saying.

“For a deceased celebrity, the skill is extremely irritating,” Bill said. “And for yours truly, the most celebrated author of the English language, it is downright insufferable. Every time a pimply faced teenager writes down, ‘Umm…I mean, like, Shakespeare was OK I guess…’ the sentiment is instantly zapped into my brain.”

Bill grabbed the sides of his head and massaged his temples.

“Blast! There’s another one!”

“Sorry,” I said. “Geez, I always thought it would be cool to be a celebrity. That’s why I’ve always wanted to be a writer. I never knew you were all so tortured.”

“You don’t know the half of it, honey,” the waitress said as she handed another martini to Bill. “F. Scott Fitzgerald and Truman Capote are always in here debating about which of one of them had it worse.  Writers are lousy with ennui.”

“Tell me about it,” I replied.

The waitress checked the levels on my beer helmet, poured some more into each container, then walked away.

As soon as I was sure the waitress was out of earshot, I turned to Bill.

“Is that…”

“Who, her?” Bill asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Who is she? I’ve seen her all over TV but I can’t think of her name.”

“She’s an amalgamation,” Bill responded.

“A what?”

The Waitress - aka

The Waitress – aka “The Most Beloved Female Celebrity of Your Generation Who Died Too Soon.”  Who does she look like to you?

“A hallucination. A magical, metaphysical trick,” Bill explained. “To every individual in this establishment, our waitress looks like the most beloved deceased female celebrity of the aforementioned individual’s generation. There have been so many female entertainers loved by many who departed the physical realm much too soon.”

“Wow,” I said.

“To Mr. Einstein, she looks like the late actress Marilyn Monroe,” Bill said. “To me, she appears in the grim visage of Sir Lionel Scarsbrook of Glastonbury-upon-Stratshire.”

“Sir Lionel who?” I asked.

“Women were not allowed upon the stage in my day, Mr. Bookshelf,” Bill said. “Acting – very physically demanding work, you know. All the running around, shouting, crying, laughing, sword play and so on. Women were not believed to have the constitutions necessary for the theater so men donned dresses, wigs, and make-up in order to play the female parts.”

“That’s stupid,” I said.

“Call it stupid if you like, good sir, but even in full beard Sir Lionel could act circles around Katherine Heigl.”

“Agreed,” I said. “But whoever she is, why is she here?”

“People tend to be very uncomfortable when they first arrive in this place,” Bill said. “Seeing a beloved female celebrity from their generation who died too soon tends to have a calming effect on newcomers. People are so happy to see her up and walking around again they don’t worry about anything else.”

“I do miss her,” I said.

“Everyone from your generation does,” Bill replied.

We sat on the couch in silence for awhile, sipping our respective drinks.

Finally, I had to ask.

“Bill, what is this place?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Bill said.

Out of nowhere, the waitress who bore a striking resemblance to a beloved female celebrity from my generation who passed away too soon, popped up behind me with a pair of vodka bottles, one in each hand.

There was no doubt that I was in some kind of supernatural place, since I was consuming enough booze to drop a thoroughbred race horse and yet I was still moving and grooving.

The waitress removed the beer containers from my helmet, replaced them with the vodka bottles, and inserted the straws.

“I heard you ask him what this place is, honey,” the waitress said. “You’ll need these.”

Like a flash, she was gone again.

“I don’t know your religion so I don’t wish to offend you, Mr. Bookshelf,” Bill said. “And we haven’t much time. To educate you as to the nature of this place requires me to discuss with you a spiritual question that has vexed the people of Earth since time immemorial.”

“Why don’t they just abolish the designated hitter rule?” I asked.

“What is the meaning of life?” Bill said, ignoring my snark. “Whether you refer to him as God, Allah, Buddha, or Lord Gleepglorp from Planet Fuzzlewak or whatever the damned Scientologists call him, there is indeed a being who runs the show. The totality of existence rests within the palm of his hand.”

I slurped away on the vodka.

“Life is a test,” Bill said. “A trial designed to test the mettle of souls.”

Bill looked at me. He must have noticed the dumbfounded expression on my face. It was dumber than usual.

“I am a legendary wordsmith and yet I struggle to find the right words to explain this to you,” Bill said.

I looked at Bill and the words rolled right off my tongue.

“All the world’s a stage and the people merely players?”

I raised my right eyebrow in a comically quizzical manner, totally proud of myself for thinking of that.

“Precisely,” Bill said. “Call this deity by any name you wish, but all he has ever asked is that people live life on Earth to the best of their abilities. Get up everyday, try your best, avoid committing evil acts upon your fellow man and in the end, he finds a place for you in Heaven.”

“Where everything is free?” I asked.

“Where everything is free,” Bill replied.

“And I get to chat with my favorite writer of all time while the most beloved female celebrity of my generation who died too soon fetches me drinks?” I asked.

“Snacks too,” the waitress said as she plopped a family-sized bag of chili cheese nacho chips on my lap.

“Do you want a tip or something?” I asked the waitress. “I’m told money has no meaning here but is there something I can do to thank you? Your service has been excellent and I feel bad for not pointing it out.”

The waitress’ eyes teared up. She leaned in and pecked a tiny kiss on my cheek.

“Oh my,” she said. “All this time I’ve spent here and no one has ever inquired about thanking me before.”

“Seriously?” I asked.

“Seriously,” she replied.

“So is there anything I can do?” I asked.

“No thank you,” the waitress said. “Your general display of exuberance over my prompt serving abilities is all the thanks I need.”

As she walked away, Bill shot me a “told you so” expression.

“No one’s ever offered to tip her before?” I asked. “The bar to get into Heaven is set pretty low, huh?”

“And thus, good sir,” Bill said. “It is my sad and unfortunate duty to inform you that you are not in Heaven.”

I was shocked. My mind raced. Where was I? Was I in Hell?

“I knew it,” I said. “I’m in Hell. For Christ Sake’s, I forget to hit the ‘like’ button on Cousin Phil’s vacation photos and they send me to the nether regions of human existence for all eternity!”

“Relax,” Bill said. “It’s not as bad as all that either.”

Whew. What a relief. I cracked open the bag of nachos and munched away. I offered some to Bill.

“No thank you,” Bill said. “They give me gas most foul.”

Where is Bookshelf Q. Battler?  Find out in the next installment of Bookshelf Q. Battler and the Meaning of Life!

Copyright (C) Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.  All Rights Reserved.

Waitress photo courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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BQB and The Meaning of Life – Part 2 – Twenty-Three Skadoo

PREVIOUSLY ON BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER AND THE MEANING OF LIFE…

PART 1 – “Oh no! I ate a toaster pastry full of concentrated lightning and died on the toilet! Ouch!”

“Say, what’s that light over there?”

AND NOW BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER AND THE MEANING OF LIFE CONTINUES…

The light at the end of the tunnel grew brighter with every step I took towards it. Suddenly, the light took over, and all the darkness surrounding me faded away. I found myself in a sterile white hallway, staring at a door. I tried the knob. It wouldn’t budge.

I knocked on the door. A slit in the middle opened and a pair of angry eyes stared out at me.

“What’s the password, see?” the man behind the door asked.

“Umm…password?” I answered.

“Bah!” the man said. “I suppose they’ll just let just any old mook in here, see?”

I was transported to a 1930's speakeasy.  The joint was lousy with flappers, see?

I was transported to a 1930’s speakeasy. The joint was lousy with flappers, see?

The bolt snapped and the door opened. The man who had let me in was nowhere to be found. I stepped through the threshold and was instantly transported to an old-timey 1930’s speakeasy.

I was no longer in my pajamas. I was wearing a black zoot suit with wide white pinstripes, a spiffy fedora, and a pair of shoes so shiny I could see my reflection in them.

I took a look around. On stage, there was a big band playing The Charleston. On a couch to my right, a group of flappers (you know, those women in the fringe skirts and head bands with the one feather in front) were lounging about, calling each other “Dah-ling” and smoking through foot long cigarette filters.

It was odd. The whole scene felt like it was straight out of a 1930’s gangster flick. Yet, the inhabitants of the joint were all famous historical figures from every century imaginable.

At the bar, Albert Einstein, Cleopatra, Abraham Lincoln, and Jim Morrison were pounding shots like nobody’s business. They were in some kind of rousing competition to see who could drink the most without getting sick.

Einstein was drinking them all under the table.

“E=MC YOU ARE ALL SQUARES!” Einstein yelled just before tipping another brew down his throat.

“Four score and seven years ago, this forefather was ready to puke,” was Honest Abe’s reply. He pulled off his infamous stove pipe hat and used it as a barf receptacle. Jim and Cleopatra passed out. Albert just kept on drinking.  That scientist sure could hold his liquor.

Utterly confused, I took a seat on a couch in the back corner of the room and sat down in the hopes that eventually it would all make sense.

Twenty minutes later, it still did not.

“Need a drink, doll face?”

I looked up. The waitress was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. I couldn’t remember her name, but I was certain I’d seen her somewhere before.

“No thank you,” I replied.

“Let me rephrase,” the waitress said. “You NEED a drink, sweetie. Newbies always freak out if they’re not sloshed.”

She took a shot glass of whiskey off her tray and set it on the table before me.

“Anything else just ask.”

And then she was gone.

Ed Sullivan took to the main stage and introduced Liberace, who was clad in his finest white fur coat.  He waved to the crowd then proceeded to tickle the ivories of a majestic white piano.

Three songs in, a balding British gentleman with a Van Dyke beard and a cod piece walked up to the couch and parked himself in a seat right next to mine.

Assuming I was trapped forever in the 1930’s, I did my best to blend in.

“Say, whaddya think yer tryin’ to pull, see?” I asked. “This spot is reserved for my keister, see? Twenty-three skadoo somewhere else because I’m the cat’s pajamas in these here parts, see?”

What can I say? I felt threatened and said the first words that entered my mind.

The gentleman downed the last sip left in his martini glass.

“Forsooth! Gather and be merry, kind sir!” the man said. “To offer a proclivity of disrespect? ’Twas not my intention. Fi! For a jest in the name of foolery is a source of amusement but a jest at the expense of the dignity of my fellow man is an utterance that deigns to make fools of us all!”

My jaw dropped.

“Yeah,” I said. “Just mind your P’s and Q’s buster or I’ll have to jitterbug the foxtrot all over your face, see?”

The man set his glass on the table.

“Good and noble sir,” the man said. “Doubtless am I that spirits of the alcoholic variety doth embolden thine own spirit to an uproarious crescendo but I pray thee- do not turn a potential friend to a foe. For the world is filled with little more than men in search of friends who do nothing to find them but everything within their power to find enemies in every corner.”

“Why the expletive deleted are you talking like that?” I asked.

“Me?” the British man said. “Good sir, you are the one saying ‘twenty-three skadoo’ and ‘see!’”

“I thought that’s what I’m supposed to do!” I said. “It looks like Al Capone’s gin joint in here!”

The waitress returned. Under normal conditions, her bright eyes, long hair, and perfect smile would have been welcome. However, my heart was already racing from the strange circumstances I found myself in, and her gorgeous appearance only exacerbated my malady.

“Another martini Bill?” the waitress asked.

“Bill,” I thought. “Who do I know who is British, speaks fancy, wears a codpiece, and is named ‘Bill?’ Hmmmm.”

“Please,” Bill replied. “Shaken…not stirred.”

“That joke never gets old, Bill,” the waitress said as she rolled her eyes.

Skyfall!” Bill said. “Have you seen it yet, dear?”

“Not yet,” the waitress said. “Been too busy keeping the newbies soused to the gills.”

“Oh you must!” Bill said. “It is a delightful romp!”

The waitress smiled at Bill and placed another shot in front of me.

I wasn’t fighting it anymore. The waitress was right. Booze was the only thing keeping me from going completely bonkers from the stress of not knowing what was going on.

I drank the shot immediately. Bourbon this time. She was changing it up.

“Good sir,” Bill said to me. “Hast thou gazed thine eyes upon Skyfall?”

“Yeah, like three years ago,” I said.

“Ah yes, well we do get new releases a bit late here,” Bill said. “I have nary an idea how they do it but the fellows in charge of Hollywood manage to bleed every last six-pence from these moving pictures before they are finally released here for us to watch for free.”

“You get free movies here?” I asked.

“Free everything here,” Bill answered. “The waitress hasn’t charged you for a drink yet, has she?”

“She has not,” I said. “Should I tip her?”

“Why bother?” Bill said. “Everything here is free so a tip would be meaningless. Besides, there is no currency here so what would you tip her with?”

“Applause?” I asked.

“I suppose,” Bill said. “Or a general display of exuberance over her prompt serving abilities would do just the same.”

Bill's drink of choice.

Bill’s drink of choice.

The waitress returned and handed Bill a fresh martini. She took the empty shot glass from me, removed the fedora from my head, and replaced it with a yellow construction worker hard hat. Attached to either side of the hat were two forty ounce plastic containers, each filled to the top with beer. Each had a straw that dangled down until they merged into one straw. She placed that into my mouth.

“Listen sweetheart,” the waitress said. “I’m not trying to turn you into an alcoholic here. I’m just saying I see about a hundred of you guys a week..and..well..just trust me.”

“I trust you,” I said as I sipped from the straw.

Across the room, a fight broke out. The three of us watched as a team of bouncers moved in to control the situation.

“Lucille Ball just punched out Teddy Roosevelt over a fixed card game and I still feel like I’m the most ridiculous thing in this room,” I said.

“Indeed, good sir,” Bill replied. “But fear not, for we have all walked in your shoes before.”

“I notice you keep switching back and forth between fancy old English talk and a plain modern style,” I said.

“Which do you prefer?” the man asked.

“The plain style is easier to understand,” I said.

“Then I will do my best to speak plainly,” Bill said. “Although know that what you call plain I call lazy.”

“I did like the old English style though,” I said. “It almost made you sound like…”

My jaw dropped. Again.

“Like who?” the man asked.

“Like the greatest writer of the English language,” I said.

I sipped from my beer hat vigorously.

“Oh my God!” I said. “Are you…”

Who the heck is this guy? Find out next time on Bookshelf Q. Battler and the Meaning of Life!

Copyright (C) Bookshelf Q. Battler.  All Rights Reserved

Flapper and martini photos via a shutterstock.com license 

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Beware the Ides of March

Caesar:
Who is it in the press that calls on me?
I hear a tongue shriller than all the music
Cry “Caesar!” Speak, Caesar is turn’d to hear.

Soothsayer:
Beware the ides of March.

Caesar:
What man is that?

Brutus:
A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March.

– William Shakespeare

Julius Caesar Act 1, Scene 2, 15–19

The Ides of March are here!  Are you being wary of them?

THE SIBERIAN YETI:  Bookshelf Q. Battler, what is an “Ide?”  And also, get back in your cage!

BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER:  Good question, Yeti.  Well, the first one was, anyway.  The “Ides” of any month means the middle of that month.  Most months have 30-31 days so the “Ides” will fall on or around the 15th.  I argue the 15th but people might differ.  (I suppose some might claim for a Month with 31 days, the “Ides” would fall on the 15.5th day, or in other words, the morning of the 16th.  February, with only 28 days, will have its “Ides” on the 14th.

Enough babbling from me, it’s March 15th, so if you’re Julius Caesar, then beware!

THE SIBERIAN:  You will never get 4000 Twitter followers and your blog is a waste of gigabytes.

BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER:  Well, I never!

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Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130 – “My Mistress’ Eyes Are Nothing Like the Sun.”

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Behold!  I will now present what I argue is the greatest love poem ever written:

Sonnet 130: My Mistress’ Eyes Are Nothing Like The Sun

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

Was Shakespeare being serious here?  Was he being satiric?  Both?

I think we have an early example of parody here.

Every love poem compares a woman’s eyes to the sun, her breath to perfume, her cheeks to roses, etc.  Here, Shakespeare is saying, “You know what?  I have a regular, normal, average woman.  She’s nothing special.  But I love her anyway.”

And that’s a great thing!  Most people are normal, average, and ordinary.  You don’t need to over hype people to love them.  Just love your special someone for who they are.

Now then – and listen carefully, dudes.  Keep in mind I am not recommending that you take your ladies out tonight and tell them, “Baby, your breathe reeks, your breasts are grey (dun being an old word for grey), you’re no goddess, and music sounds better than you do!”

And in fact, as a disclaimer to all the crooked lawyers out there reading this – the Bookshelf Battler takes no responsibility for anything that happens to a man who recites Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130 to his lady love.

Because while most people won’t get it, it really is a sweet poem.  Why?

Because anyone can love a person with breathe like perfume and whose voice is like music, but true love comes in loving the normal, the average, the ordinary, and even the below average.  And as hot as your woman may be, no one really has breathe like perfume, walks like a goddess, etc.

You may think there are a handful of women like that in the world, but I’d imagine even Brad Pitt is like, at least once in awhile, “Damn Angelina’s breath stanks!!!”

So this Valentine’s Day, grab hold of your very average and ordinary loved ones, knowing that to you they are above average and extraordinary, and make them feel that way.

But seriously.  Don’t tell her that her eyes are nothing like the sun.

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Romance Advice from William Shakespeare – Part Four

Shakespeare was an intense dude.  Most people were intense way back when.  They put on twenty pounds of clothes just to go out to eat and they used twenty words to say things where one would have done just fine.

The Bard’s words are beautiful, but they aren’t as easily understood by today’s modern English speakers.

So first, study Shake’s immortal love sonnet below, and after that, I will translate.

Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day?  (Sonnet 18)

BY: William Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow’st.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

OK.  And now for the translation.  Are you sitting down?  Good.  For I will now translate this masterpiece of old English into modern language:

Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day?  (Sonnet 18)

BY:  William Shakespeare

TRANSLATED BY:  Bookshelf Q. Battler

Damn baby, you be fine!

And there you have it.  The Bard’s words brought forth into modern times.  ‘Tis a beautiful thing.

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Romance Advice From William Shakespeare – Part 3

Do you believe in love at first sight?

That’s not a trick question.  I’m not going to ask you if I need to walk by again.

Do people instantly connect and have metaphysical fireworks explode in their hearts, or does it take time for love to grow?

Personally, I feel like the older one gets, the harder it is to feel those instant fireworks.  But what do I know?

Shakespeare believed in love at first sight.  And since this is a series about how to get chicks using the bard’s most romantic passages – well, if you meet someone and feel that instant connection, maybe you can recite this to said individual:

No sooner met but they looked;
No sooner looked but they loved;
No sooner loved but they sighed;
No sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason;
No sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy;
And in these degrees have they made a pair of stairs to marriage…

– William Shakespeare, As You Like It

Love at first sight or love that grows with time?  Is one better than the other?

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Romance Advice From William Shakespeare – Part 2

Dudes, you have no idea how lucky you are all to have me.  I’m here.  I’m taking time out of my busy schedule to inform you, the reading masses, how to use the writings of the most influential author of the English language, to score points with the ladies.

Bardin’ ‘Aint Easy

OK.  Look at me.  LOOK AT ME.  Take one night out of your life and woo your woman.  All to often men underestimate the power of woo.

What is woo?  It’s not easy to explain.  It’s the effort you put in to make your woman feel special and loved.  Frankly, if you have to ask, some other dude has probably wooed your woman away by now anyway.

Don’t half-ass it like you do everything else.  Your woman is not some rug that you can just sweep dirt under and then pretend like you actually cleaned the floor.  Look at your woman and pitch ridiculous amounts of woo.  Take all of your wooing skills and just send them straight into your woman’s general direction.

Shakespeare’s Henry VI dealt with all of the political power power plays and general nastiness that led to the War of the Roses.  What was that war about?   I don’t know.  One side had some roses.  The other side wanted roses.  So they fought over the roses.  What do I look like?  A history scholar?  We’re not here to talk about roses (although you should order your lady some in advance because they’ll be sold out by Valentine’s Day by dudes who thought of this stuff before you did).

We’re here to talk about this quote:

“She’s beautiful, and therefore to be wooed; She is woman, and therefore to be won”

– William Shakespeare, Henry VI

Take a knee, dudes.  Listen – want a translation of what Bill just said?  Here you go – you can’t phone this shit in.  Your woman is beautiful and so you have to earn that right to be around all that beauty.  Get her flowers.  Sing to her.  Read her poems and shit.  Or if she’s not into all that, then do chores and crap without her complaining about it or acting like a martyr because you had to wash a dish.  Make your woman happy!

Happy Wife = Happy Life.  Woo.  Learn how to Woo.

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Romance Advice From William Shakespeare – Part 1

Valentine’s Day is right around the corner, dudes.  And even though I totally just reminded you, you’re going to wait until Feb. 14th at 6 pm to get some tired, left over card and a box of stale candy from the discount bin at the drug store because that’s all they will have left.

So, I’m here to help.  Even if you screw up your gift giving responsibilities, you can still check my blog, and recite some love poetry with the help of my main man, Bill Shakespeare.

“To Mac, or Not to Mac? That is the Question.”

Shakespeare was the most romantic dude of his day, which, alright, was pretty easy, since he lived in an age where people thought bathing was optional.

Alright.  SCENARIO – You get home on Valentine’s Day.  Your lady love is all dressed up, waiting for you to get your romance on, and what do you do?  You’ve got nothing.  You’ve got one of those M and M Dispensers where the cartoon M and M men are doing something hilarious.  But it’s not enough for this woman, because, I don’t know, what, does she think she’s the Queen of England or something?  Why is your woman not cool enough that she can’t just appreciate a good M and M dispenser?  Sheesh.

Alright, anyway, all you do is lay out the Romeo and Juliet action:

But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That her maid art far more fair than she:

William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

I’m just going to say it.  Women like drama.  Ok some women do.  Not all.  Let’s not use sweeping generalizations.  Some like to have all kinds of attention and have the focus be on them.

What was Bill saying in this scene?  He’s having Romeo tell Juliet, “Hey, Juliet, you’re hot like the sun, and you’re such a hot sun that you’re hotter than the moon.  The moon’s got nothing on you baby.”

You can just skip the poem altogether and just tell your lady, “You’re hotter than the moon.”  Or, just pick a gal she hates.  Her sister.  Your next door neighbor.  The dame she complains about from work.  Just be all like, “Baby you are way hotter than Becky from Accounting.”

Actually, don’t do that.  Then she’ll just accuse you of checking out Becky from Accounting.

The point is – Bill Shakespeare can get you chicks.  So keep following and I’ll tell you how.

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Deflategate Shakespearized

I like to Shakespearize things – movies, TV shows, songs.  I love Shakespeare.  Maybe it’s trite, but I do feel that the English language’s greatest author walked the earth around 500 years or so ago (give or take a few years here or there).

I hope to turn this into a new feature, and if you have something you’d like to see Shakespearized, let me know.

Without further ado…

DEFLATEGATE SHAKESPEARIZED

By:  Bookshelf Q.  Battler

A Tale Told in the Tradition of the Bard

PRESS MAN #1 – In fair New England where we begin our tale, a legend of great treachery and sanctimonious chicanery, of gladiators of the gridiron and air dispersion most foul.

RANDOM COLTS PLAYER (staring at and holding up a football as if it were a skull) – Is this a ball I see before me?  It’s lack of weight disturbeth me with the passion of the Gods who once clapped in thunderous combat above the skies of Ancient Rome. Fi on thee, Knaves of New England, Mercenaries of the Villainous Cheese Baron!  Something is rotten in the State of the NFL.

ENTER KING BELICHIK –  Friends, Romans, Countrymen!  Lend me your ears!  Good sirs, rest thine ears upon my voice, and hear me as I say that in my four score years of leading mine knights into carefully manicured grassy fields of battle all across our land, this is the first and only time that anyone hath raised the issue of mine balls!  Merry, it surpriseth me greatly to hear men complain of a trivial happenstance, as surely as it would surpriseth me were I to waken on the morrow to find that the sun’s exuberant colors had transferred from yellow to green.

PRESS MAN #2 – Foul!  Foul!  Scandal most foul!  A plague on your house, King Belichik!  For thou failest to taketh the fall in this fake story that we hath manufactured out of whole cloth!  Thou hast thrown Sir Thomas of Brady under the bus!

TYPICAL COLTS FAN –  To inflate or not to inflate?  That is the question.  Whether tis nobler in the mind to inflate your balls to 12.5 pounds per square inch, or to take air out of your balls until they are 11.5 pounds per square inch, and in doing so, ruin them?  To inflate, to deflate, to inflate perchance to dream?  Ay, there’s the rub…on our balls!

SIR THOMAS OF BRADY – Tomorrow, tomorrow, and tomorrow…inflated balls are a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, and signifying slow news days…

COLTS FAN #2 – O, I see Queen Mab!  Come she does, the Queen of the Fairies!  And she telleth me true, she fills my ears with the melodious truth, that had our balls been comprised of more air, we surely would not have had our asses handed to us in a massacre in which we lost by 40 points!  Fi!  By the beard of God I say had the game ball had one but one more pound of pressure inside of it, we would have fought boldly like the mighty warriors of the coliseum of old!

ENTER FOX AND COMPANIONS – Forsooth and hark, for we are Fox and Companions!  Bringeth yon noble viewers news of the death of the Saudi Arabian King?  Nay!  Bringeth ye news of the resignation of the Yemen Government?  Nay!  Gather round and hear a tale of balls deflated with vigorous gusto!

PRESS MAN #3 – But soft!  What lies through yonder window breaks?!  It tis the east, and the underinflated balls are the sun!  Arise fair balls, and kill the envious moon, whose maid art sick and pale with grief, that her maid’s balls are far more inflated than yours!

PATRIOTS FAN -(also holding a football like it was a skull) –  Alas, poor football, I knew him, Horatio.  Twas a football of great jest and most excellent fancy!  Once inflated to 12.5 pounds per square inch and then alas, deflated to a paltry 11.5 square pounds per inch by rapscallions of ignominious cunning and unscrupulous alacrity. Our knights, once a great bastion of the game, now reduced to wicked pissah jokes about deflated balls.

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