All the blogosphere's a stage,
And all the Twits and Bloggers merely players:
They have their rants and their excentricities;
And one Blog in its time plays many parts,
Its acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Uncertain and reeling in the writers's mind.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining cheeky face, creeping with malice
Unwillingly to the game. And then the lover,
Commenting with earnest, with a mutual blogroll
Made of his friendships built. Then a soldier,
Full of strange thoughts and bearded like the pard,
Defended with honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking a mutual respect of ideas
Even cross the political divide. And then the justice,
In fair round readers list and passing trolls,
With eyes mischeivious and Blog of history long,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the fat and northern former buffoon,
Who not long ago didn't get the t'internet,
His youthful rebirth, well recevieved, a world web wide
For his elderstatesman grin; and his manly blog voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans readers, sans friends, sans reputation, sans everything.
And all the Twits and Bloggers merely players:
They have their rants and their excentricities;
And one Blog in its time plays many parts,
Its acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Uncertain and reeling in the writers's mind.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining cheeky face, creeping with malice
Unwillingly to the game. And then the lover,
Commenting with earnest, with a mutual blogroll
Made of his friendships built. Then a soldier,
Full of strange thoughts and bearded like the pard,
Defended with honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking a mutual respect of ideas
Even cross the political divide. And then the justice,
In fair round readers list and passing trolls,
With eyes mischeivious and Blog of history long,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the fat and northern former buffoon,
Who not long ago didn't get the t'internet,
His youthful rebirth, well recevieved, a world web wide
For his elderstatesman grin; and his manly blog voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans readers, sans friends, sans reputation, sans everything.
Possible how recent event would have been covered on WillsShakeySpear.blogspot.com
2 comments:
I might be northern, but at least I can spell buffoon.
* is having flashbacks to the grossly offensive and upsetting "Northern" comic at Liberal Revue *
Still, racial stereotypes are FINE when it's Northerners you're stereotyping, and not PoC, right?
I wasn't stereotyping Northerners, who of course happen to be Southerners to me, but I was calling Prescott a former buffoon. Besides beng Irish and of Scottish extraction I'm hardly immune to the stereotyping myself.
The Northern I can assure you was purely a placement device.
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