fr_defenestrato: (Default)
fr_defenestrato ([personal profile] fr_defenestrato) wrote2010-05-14 03:45 pm

Alt version

Now, Hamlet, what's the matter? Art thou robb'd
Of reason by those buttock-throttling pants,
At whose discomforture thou'st sweated, sobb'd,
And shewn thine uncle's court the chicken dance?
Mistake me not, my lord: thy secret parts—
Not e'en indiff'rent secret in those jeans—
Sing fair of Fortune's favor, cleaving hearts
In twain, delighting all those agèd queens
The hey-day of whose blood thou prizest low;
And yet, what is this quintessence of dunce?
Dost trust thy beautified physique o'ercrow
Thy journeyman's gesticulative punts,
Hands thrown in air as if thy word were tactile?
Thou'rt not so much Herod as Herodactyl.


I hate to lose 'quintessence of Dunst' but it's rather an in-joke for folks who know how I feel about Ms. Kirsten D~. Also, this way more specifically cites what I found objectionable about the guy's performance.

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