Shakespearian musings from a third of a lifetime (13 years) ago

I was scrolling through some old, old writings that I composed primarily for the amusement of myself and my best friend from college when I came across this piece from ~2000 where I riffed off of Hamlet.  It is not a serious piece, but perhaps it'll reveal a different mindset, as this was written before I moved to Florida, before I changed careers, before a lot of other sobering life events.  Sometimes, silliness should be celebrated, so here goes:

To be or not to be, that is a silly question, 
since you have to be before you can not be. 
Who cares if it is nobler in the mind to suffer 
the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, 
because they still hurt (sticks and stones may 
break my bones...).  If you do decide to take 
arms, that will leave many people without their 
upper limbs. And why would you take their arms 
to a sea of troubles and by opposing (what, 
BTW, are you opposing?) end them.  Isn't this a 
waste of arms.  To die, to sleep, no 
more...what kind of nonsense is this?  Of 
course if you die, you don't sleep anymore, 
since that is what live people do.  Besides, 
how can any sleep end heartache and a thousand 
natural shocks that flesh is heir to?  Pretty 
damn impossible for a few hours of nap time to 
me...And why in hell is that a consummation 
devoutly to be wished?  I like sleep as much as 
most people, but really it is overrated...Then 
Bill gets freaky and tries to get jiggy withit. 
"To die, to sleep; to sleep, perchance to 
dream.  Ay, there's the rub, for in that sleep 
of death what dreams may come, when we have 
shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us 
pause."  Damn right it must give us pause to 
ponder this crap.  When I dream, I most 
definitively am not thinking about mortal coils 
(whatever those damn things might be...) and no 
dream is going to shuffle me off anywhere 
anytime soon...And how in hell does all of 
Bill's blather led to the respect that makes 
calamity of so long life.  Bill's mind is a 
terrible thing to waste.  I think he needs to 
take a chill pill, as the next paranoiac passage 
indicates:  "For who would bear the whips and 
scorns of time (is time a sadist here?), th' 
oppressor's wrong (bitter man), the proud man's 
contumely (a proud man's what?!?!?!?), the 
pangs of despised love (guess Bill hasn't been 
getting any for a while...), the law's delay 
(while I might feel your pain here, stop your 
bitching...)the insolence of office (absolute 
power [not vodka] corrupts absolutely...), and 
the spurns that patient merit of th' unworthy 
takes, when he himself might his quietus make 
(to put it bluntly) with a bare bodkin (getting 
violent on your ass...)?"  Seems like Bill 
needs some therapy, pronto.  It gets worse: 
"Who would fardels (fardels, is that a type of 
flatulence?) bear, to grunt and sweat (like pigs 
in heat???) under a weary life (I suppose it 
would get boring after a while...), but that 
the dread of something after death (the 
afterlife, maybe?), the undiscovered country 
(Los Angeles) from whose bourn (bourn??? to 
whom was he/she bourn?) no traveler returns 
(guess that passageway is a wee bit too small), 
puzzles the will (some people just don't get 
it, do they?), and makes us rather bear those 
ills we have (I'm disease-free, thank you very 
much...) than fly (why not walk) to others that 
we know not of?"  Sick bastard isn't he. 
However, Bill saves the best (or worst) for 
last:  "Thus conscience makes cowards of us all 
(speak for yourself, you pansy, have at 
you!!!); and thus the native hue of resolution 
(600 x 400?) is sicklied o'er (with a computer 
virus of death, maybe?) with the pale cast of 
thought (I always thought that my thoughts were 
vibrant, since I used color-safe Cheer...), and 
enterprises (rent-a-car or the space ship) of 
great pitch (90 mph) and moment with this 
regard their currents turn awry (what direction 
is awry in?) and lose the name of action 
(action, Jackson, satisfaction, can't get no 
satisfaction...)"  Thus Bill's soliloquy makes 
my bowels weak with tepid commentary on the 
human condition.  For the clueless, this has 
been my de-re-construction of Hamlet's speech 
in Act 3, Scene 1 of Shakespeare's Hamlet. 
Thank you and drive through.

P.S. This was a satirical parody.  No 
Shakespearean actors or actresses were harmed 
in the writing of this bit.