But some well-above-average Farkers stepped up to wax eloquent on a particular theme: what if the Bard himself wrote the screenplay for Pulp Fiction?
So, I had the great fortune to combine several of my favourite things over coffee this morning: fun with language, Shakespeare, and Pulp Fiction.
Here are the links: first, the Fark thread itself
http://forums.fark.com/cgi/fark/comments.pl?IDLink=3552350
then the sources for the epic banter:
http://community.livejournal.com/metaquotes/6644038.html
http://www.metafilter.com/70997/Pulp-Shakespeare
Here I will reproduce a few of the better verses ... and as a treat for those who read the whole post, a rendition of "The Fresh Prince of Bel-Aire" done in early Norman-English on a faux Bayeux Tapestry.
Honestly, this, dear readers, is the pinnacle of internet culture!
First: Jules addresses Ringo in the coffee shop.
I have for years recited thus. If thou didst but hear,
It was as clear a sign of your demise
As found in any witches' scry.
Yet never had I ponder'd its intent;
T'was simply fiendish sounds I could thus speak
Before I dealt my foes the final stroke
That sent them on to God's Own Realm.
But just this morrow hence, I saw such things
That lead me to reflect upon my words
And divine what the meaning was therein.
Perchance, I guessed, you are the evil man,
And I the righteous man. As for the shepherd,
Methought it could have then stood for my blade.
Anon, perhaps the righteous man is you;
I then may be the shepherd, and the evil and the selfish
Is all that stands about us in this world.
Such is a pleasing thought. But such is also false.
In truth, you are the weak.
And I, the tyranny of evil men.
Yet, henceforth, I assure you, I shall try
In all my ways to now become the shepherd.
Next, Jules and Brett have an erudite discussion on language and semiotics over a Big Kahuna burger.
J: My pardon; did I break thy concentration?
Continue! Ah, but now thy tongue is still.
Allow me then to offer a response.
Describe Marsellus Wallace to me, pray.
B: What?
J: What country dost thou hail from?
B: What?
J: How passing strange, for I have traveled far,
And never have I heard tell of this What.
What language speak they in the land of What?
B: What?
J: The Queen's own English, base knave, dost thou speak it?
B: Aye!
J: Then hearken to my words and answer them!
Describe to me Marsellus Wallace!
B: What?
JULES presses his knife to BRETT's throat
J: Speak 'What' again! Thou cur, cry 'What' again!
I dare thee utter 'What' again but once!
I dare thee twice and spit upon thy name!
Now, paint for me a portraiture in words,
If thou hast any in thy head but 'What',
Of Marsellus Wallace!
B: He is dark.
J: Aye, and what more?
B: His head is shaven bald.
J: Has he the semblance of a harlot?
B: What?
JULES strikes and BRETT cries out
J: Has he the semblance of a harlot?
B: Nay!
J: Then why didst thou attempt to bed him thus?
B: I did not!
J: Aye, thou didst! O, aye, thou didst!
Thou hoped to rape him like a chattel whore,
And sooth, Lord Wallace is displeased to bed
With anyone but she to whom he wed.
And finally, as promised, the Fresh Prince's own story told anew. (N.b.: I haven't gone through and checked the text for accuracy. Get back to me, say, oh, next week.)
