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If Shakespeare Ruled

If Shakespeare Ruled

Thine most favoured television programs, as penned by the Bard.
Contest ended 10 years ago 10/12/2003 12:00:00 AM EDT

Contest Info

  • Cost: 10 credits
  • Jackpot: 60 credits

Contest Options

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First Place
# 1
By Wingnut (Score: 6.852)
5

Scene: Central Perk

Ross:
Alas, my life be in a quandry
For as I carried forth my laundry
To yon local laundromat
What didst mine eyes observe but that
Foul Joey as he getteth wild
With she who bore my recent child!

Chandler:
Didst Joey doth with Rachel kiss?
What shalt thee do to fixeth this?

Ross:
To fixeth? Nay, my thoughts must smother
For I am betrothed to another.

Chandler:
Oh, what a tangled web we weave!
Dude... didst thou sneeze upon my sleeve?

Ross:
Aye, verily, I doth confess.
I didst on thine sleeve make a mess.

Chandler:
Out! Out, damn spot,
created thus with Ross's snot!

Enter Monica

Monica:
Chandler, we shalt parents be!
For an adoption agency
Hath sent me word there be a tot
that... wherefore comes that awful spot?

Chandler:
'Twas Ross who didst this wicked deed!

Ross:
An accident. You must now heed
My word as I doth now repent
For 'twas, I say, an accident.

Monica:
Thy word I do accept as true
Yet it be most disgusting too!

Chandler:
Forget all that. What hast thou heard
Of our adoption? Any word?

Monica:
Aye! As I've said, a child there be,
But not one child... we'll haveth three!
Three babes whose parents did befall
A tragedy that orphaned all.

Chandler:
Three babes? My dear, thou must be mad!
We have not room within our pad
To harbor children more than one!

Ross:
'Tis foul indeed! Run, Chandler! Run!

Monica:
Run not until my tale be done
For as I say, we'll have a son
And two young daughters for to care
And 'ere thou pulleth out thine hair
Thou must know that we shalt make room
For these three born from Phoebe's womb.

Chandler:
'Tis Phoebe's babes for which we'll care?
This changeth everything, I swear!
For if their parents no longer be,
'Tis only fair we raise the three.

Enter Joey

Joey:
Hey. Uh... thou guys... want to get a pizza... -eth?

Ross:
Aye, verily! For this be great!
With pizza we shalt celebrate!

Exeunt all.

Word count: 346
 
Second Place
# 2
By Cheveldae (Score: 6.134)
3

Act I:
Homer: Forsooth, for I hast crashed my chariot after imbibing a sextet of my beloved nectar of barley and hops.

Margerie: Go forth, and seek a new coach to replace the olde, I beseech you.

Homer: I shall, dearest of the dear. Look, there yonder lies a merchant of automated machinery.

Homer: Oh, what a magnificent beast I see before me! Wait, what manner of deviltry is this price tag?Merchant, art thou the Devil himself, to ask of me the equal of my own soul?

Merchant: Fret not, good sire! Tis bit a pittance, given the moneys thou shall receive by removing the foul flakes of winter from the doorsteps of this fair town.

Homer: Your words ring true. I shall tie my fate to this plow. I pray that good fortune doest smile upon me.

Act II:
Barnard: How glorious thou life must be, Homer. The city applauds your slightest movement, but only heckles mine. Why, this very day, I failed to portray an infant to standards fitting my employer’s needs. You art a king, and I your humble fool.

Homer: Tut tut, good sir. I am no hero, and you art no fop. Thou merely need to find what task ye can do best, and can best serve yon townsfolk.

Barnard: Ah, but you art a king, with much thanks to your plow. To be an equal, I would need a plow and a crown of my own. Oh, sweet inspiration hath come down from the muses! I shall become the Plow King, and usurp your throne.

Homer: Barnard! We hast been chums since we were babes. What whims of fate would turn you against me now? Are tastes of fame and fortune fair trade for our friendship?

Barnard: I knowest not. But I shall not rest until the answer is learned. I take my leave now, as my public beckons me.

Act III:
Margerie: What ails you, fair husband? Your brow is as bent as your plow, when it cuts through freshly fallen powder.

Homer: If all glory is fleeting, mine is leagues away. The cries of joy that once came along with my presence are now reserved for Barnard. I hast lost a friend, lost my town, and may soon lose my plow. Must everything I hold true escape my grasp?

Margerie: You shall never lose my love, which you hold above all else. As to the rest, it may returneth to you one day. Mayhaps sooner, if you show that your plow blade is the superior.

Homer: Yes, I must! But Barnard is still a friend, so I shall just use a trick, a tale to draw him away. A messenger shall be dispatched carrying an offer that he will quickly accept!

Barnard: I hast traveled hither and yon to find the abode described in this fair parchment, without avail. Hark, what sound doest I hear? Alas, tis an avalanche come to trap me! What cruel fate that the substance I move about with ease shall come back to be my prison!

Homer: My idea hast born vast fruit! The town shall adore me anon! But what is this news the town crier spills forth? Ye Gods, Barnard may be in dire need, I must go to assist him post haste!

Barnard: Homer! I turn on you, and still you come to my rescue. Is there enough room in your bosom to forgive my transgressions?

Homer: Pay it no heed, Barnard. We must behave as companions now, for that is what we art. Combined, I knoweth that we may tackle any obstacle.

Barnard: I concur. I only wish that it hath come about before; even now the time turns towards spring, and our opportunity melts away with the snow.

Homer: Ah, so it will have to be. What doest it matter? What might hold more value than our brotherhood?

Barnard: But what of the plow?

Homer: D’oheth!

Word count: 654
 
1

(To be sung to the Simpson’s Sherry Bobbin’s Song – If you know it)

Lisa: If thou dost wish to care for thee,

I pray, be benevolent to thy own degree.

Aid thee amongst sums and reports,

Barticus: May thy add – eat thy shorts!

(spoken)

Lisa: Barticus!


Lisa: If Maggie est hardly pleased, do nought shun her.

Barticus: Let thee go with guiltless murder!

Lisa: Teach thee tunes and devil tricks,

Lord Simpson: And might thou add – no portly chicks!

Lady Simpson: Homer!


Lisa: The provider thy wishes shall be kindly and wise,

Lord Simpson: And one whom shall labor on least prize.

Lisa: Hurry nanny, thy world looks grim.

(spoken)

Grandfather: I shall do this request!

Barticus & Lisa: Any soul but…him.


Sherry: If there be-ith a duty what must be made,

Turn thy tail not towards thy own aid,

Pout-ith not and do nought sob,

Just perform a shoddy job!


If… thou… cut-ith each curve,

Tis truly not hence bored,

Every soul doth it,

Even lady and lord.

If none glimpse it,

No soul is livid-in accord,

Barticus: Tis the respectful way!

Sherry: Thy officer upon the beat,

Need-ith but a moments rest for feet.

Officer Wiggum: Dueling scum tis not thy cup of tea!


Sherry: And merchant dost run thy store,

Shall charge a modest more.

For thy meat!

Apu: For thy meat!

Sherry: And milk!

Apu: And milk!

Sherry & Apu: From 1684!


Sherry: If… thou… cut-ith each curve,

Thou shalt have more time for play,

Tis the English waaaaay!

Sherry: In front of thy tavern,

Flat upon his face,

A drunk scoundrel name-ith Barney,

Be pleading his case.


Barney: Buy-ith thee a beer,

Two coppers a glass.

Please, kind folks, help thee,

I be freezing thy ass.


Buy-ith thee Brandy,

A sniffer of wine.

Who doth I kid?

I would drink turpentine.


Moe: Vacate, thou drunk,

Or we shall stab thou rear end.

Barney: Thy found two coppers!

Moe: Then come-ith in thy friend!


Sherry: So, we leave-ith,

On a heart warming scene.

Barticus: Could I be-ith a boozehound?

Lord Simpson: Nought till thou be-ith fifteen.


Sherry: If… thou… cut-ith each curve,

Tis truly not hence bored,

Every soul doth it,

Even lady and lord.

If none glimpse it,

No soul is livid-in accord,

Barticus: Tis the English way!

Lord Simpson: Around thy house, I never do thy share,

As a Lord and a father, I be sub-par.

Thy would rather lift a beer,

Than win father of this year,

I be-ith happy with things as they are.


Ned: Thou are nought perfect,

But thine Lord says “Love thy neighbor.”

Lord Simpson: Shut thy hole, Flanders.

Ned: Okely-dokely-dee.

Sherry: Think nought it sour grapes,

But thou art a slew of apes,

And woe, I must leave-ith thee!


Note: (If you haven't seen this simpson's episode, you're missing out big time. Hope you like it!)

Word count: 476
 
Third Place
# 4
By Spook (Score: 5.58)
0

SCENE I. A Blazing Fire. A cacophony of humanity.

Enter COOKIE, TEX, CUTTHROAT, GABBY,
KENTHORP, and MONGO.

TEX
Upon what eve doth my appetite arise?
My belly doth desire the fruit of the Gods.

GABBY
Ah doth so acclaim the nectar of the sweet vine.
The heart of my soul pursues pleasure sublime.


BRAPPFFFZZZZZZZ

GABBY
Hark, what yon wind doth I hear?
Beckoning my senses, I bow to your aire.
Is that a rose that hath died?
Or perhaps a rotten cow’s hide?

CUTTHROAT
Gabby thou art pleasant of words
Thine fragrance is of turds.

BRAPPFFFZZZZZFTPPPZZZZZZ

TEX
What hath happened to my senses?
My nose doth want to repent
of the sin of your entrails
that you hath sent.

BRAPPFFFZZOWEEZZEEZZZZZ!

CUTTHROAT
Remember these trumpets hereafter as my
honourable friends,
My Lords of Cows:
Warm as the bosom of sweet Juliet,
Dancing upon the palette,
As they waltz through my bowels.


KENTHORP
Who hath insulted the grace of my loins?
Is it my desire to faint upon thine throne?
I hath but one gift to bestow upon you,
May thou find this breeze as a piercing arrow to thine bone.

BRAPPFFFZZZZZZSHHHZZZZT!

GABBY
Oh that the flames of my intestine reigneth,
Soggy breathes of Satan from my anus,
The fiery pits of Hell! doth prevail,
Rolling upon the senses of my smell.

BRAPPFFFZZZZZZZ

MONGO
I am troubled! I am troubled!
What hath happened naught?
Oh that my nasal passages
Were they filled with gooey Snot.

BRAPPFFFZZssssssZZZZZPPPTT!

GABBY
How do I much wonder that one such man,
when he dedicates his behaviors to pain,
will, after he hath laughed at
such shallow follies in others,
become the argument
of his own scorn from his own orifice.

BRAPP PPP PPP FFFZZZZZZZ

KENTHORP
I have known when there was no music
with him but the drum and the fife.
But these springs of sulphur mocketh my life.
My eyes doth burn with raging pain,
Doth thou not have any passion or shame?

BRAPPFFFZZZZZZZ!!

MONGO
I hath naught a brain, I am only void of thought.
I have not sense, yet I am distraught.
What thunder hath roared with such a wicked stench?
That boileth over like an odor of a witches wench?

BRAP BRAPFFT PFFFZZZZZZZ

GABBY
Hither too, what breaketh at dawn?
It is within mine shorts with evil at spawn.
My contention reviles insidious flatulence,
As I breathe at my own sanity’s expense.

I have but one wonder, one thought within this quarrel.
Am I but a man? Am I filled with sorrow?
I fear not for this may seem all but true.
The aire abounds with the vile smell of poo.

BRAPPFFFZZZZZZZ!

Word count: 461
 
1

This was a real pain to render in iambic pentameter, but it was a lot of fun.
Here's a transcript of the original


Lord:
Pray sittest thou here, good wife.

Lady:
I’faith, I shall.

Lord:
Good morrow, fair tavern wench.

Servant:
Good morrow, m’lord.

Lord:
What vivands does thy humble kitchen serve?

Servant:
Egg and bacon, egg sausage and bacon/
Egg and spam; egg bacon and Spam; egg bacon/
Egg sausage and Spam; Spam bacon sausage /
And Spam; Spam egg Spam Spam bacon and Spam; Spam /
Sausage Spam Spam bacon Spam tomato and Spam/

Danes:
Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam

Servant:
Spam Spam Spam egg and Spam; Spam Spam Spam Spam
Spam Spam Spam baked beans Spam Spam Spam and Spam

Danes:
Spam! Glorious Spam! Aweful Spam!

Servant:
Also a Thermidorian Pincer/
In sauce Mornay, served as a Southern Frog/
Shallot and aubergine, truffle pate/
Brandied wine, ‘neath one fried egg and Spam.

Lady:
Servest thou victuals absent of Spam?

Servant:
Spam, eggs, sausage, and spam, like summer’s morn
Lacks much to fill the paunch and pad the ribs.

Lady:
Thou bugbear, I desire not such fare.

Lord:
She liketh not the spam. Might she therefore/
Partake of egg bacon spam and sausage?

Lady:
Marry, that be true, it is least of all
Yet it be full-brimm’d still with the knave’s meat.

Lord:
Yea, verily, it waxes in fullness/
But not as spam, eggs, sausage, and spam.

Lady:
Might you serve egg, bacon, spam and sausage/
In total absence of the hated Spam?

Servant:
Bleeeeeeeeeeeeh.

Lady:
What meanest though, bleeeh? The meanest villain/
Knows of my distaste for glutinous fare.

Danes:
Bountiful Spam! Vaunted Spam!

Servant:
Cease that racket, thou jolt-livered bunions.

Danes:
Beautiful Spam! Lovely Spam!

Servant:
Silence! Thy toad-tongued song grates on the ear.
Thou cans’t not eat a plate wanting of Spam.

Lady:
I don’t like Spam!

Lord:
Quiet, good wife, cause not a great ado/
Since Spam offends thy palate, yours I shall/
Remove, and revel in the consumption./
In bounding pleasure, I shall eat Spam, Spam/
Spam, Spam, Spam baked beans, Spam, Spam, and Spam.

Danes:
Glorious Spam! Aweful Spam!

Servant:
Silence! The lentil-pot be empty, sir.

Lord:
Fair wench, might I have Spam in lentil’s place?

Servant:
My lord wants Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam

All: (singing) Spam Spam Spam Spam
Lovely spam! Bountiful spam!
Spaaaaaaaaaaaam! Spaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam!
Wonderful Spam! Glorious Spam!
Spam, Spam, Spam, Spaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam.

Word count: 409
 
2

Stan: Dude, thou hair is begnawed like a boar-pigs! Didst thou stifle in your own report?

Kenny: Mmeth mmer uh methma mmerth.

Cartman: Aww, methink'st that is a horrid image! I merely used a foul worm of a hairgel this morn that my mother's drunken knave left at my house.

Kyle: Thy mom is an opium-hiren.

Cartman: Quiet thyself, or I shall kick... thou... in the MINIONS!

Kyle: Thou villainous fat-kidneyed moldwarp!

Cartman: Screweth thyself! I shall now partake my leave of you!

Kyle: You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will willingly part withal.

Stan: Except your life, dude.

Kyle: Oh yeah.

Stan: Dost thou wishest to accompany me to the Pond of Stark so that we may frolic in the water?

Kyle: Sa, sa!

(Stan, Kyle and Kenny begin to partake on their journey when the maid-pale Wendy draws neigh.)

Wendy: Hi, m'lord!

Stan: BLEH!

Wendy: Ewww!

Stan: Oh dear, I appear to have vomited on thy sconce and thy nether-stocks.

Wendy: That’s okay, Stan. Mine nether-stocks may be removed.

Kyle: Get thee to a nunnery, thou strumpet!

Stan: Nay, dude… thou err in thy judgement and thy tongue shall earn thy a bruise.

Kyle: Bringest it on, milk-livered micher!

(Stan lunges at Kyle with a broken apothecary bottle and Kyle at Stan with a sharp, rusty can. Both draw blood.)

Stan: Erk! Thy rusty can has given me tetnis and so I have not long of this world!

Kyle: And thou stabbist mine spleen deeply with thy arsenic-laced weapon, and so I shall join you as we leave this mortal coil!

(Wendy breathes wrong and, alas, chokes to death on Stan’s vomit. Kyle and Stan take their last breaths soon after. Kenny removes his headpiece.)

Kenny: Horray!

Word count: 292
 
7
By yeomada (Score: 4.545)
0

Neighbour: Forsooth! What Object through Yonder window breaks? Verilly a ham, nought devour'd, flie airstbourn, to crasheth through yon window!

OZZY: (Enters through window in a drugged up haze.)

To shame vile f**kwithe! Mine own daughter! (mumble, Mumble!) To sleep with such a base cocksucker as thy son. (Mumble, Mumble) Shame And woe is me! But honour is to be avenged! Lay on Macduff! (Picks up ham and is going to use as a club) (Mumble)

Neighbour: Hold! Tis true. Mine own son. A cocksucker.

Kelly: (Enters room) No! Despair not in our love father. For cannotst thou rememberest times past, when a cool rocker once took many drugs and slept around? f**k man, I'm nearly 18 now!

All exit

Sharon: By the golden teeth of Puff Daddy! A dropping from a commen household wrech. Ah sweet irony, live on high mountaintop, to pluck said droppings from floors. f**king Dogs. For shame. I call now, Jack. And again, (Jack!) for his wits are not about his zip code.

Jack: f**k this! Why not Yonder Cameraman> Does't we not have a butler to subject this shame for us?
Dost we not get paid? Only watch'ed o'er a mil sets a glowin' for the evil temptations of green trees? O how the art has suffered!

I just sort of trailed on this one. Forgive me.

Word count: 223
Please do not critique my entry.
 

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