With apologies to McSweeney’s.


Goneril: Did my father strike my gentleman for chiding of his fool?

Bronson Arroyo: I don’t know about that, but A-Rod just totally slapped the ball out of my glove!

Goneril: By day and night he wrongs me; every hour, he flashes into one gross crime or other.

Bronson Arroyo: [Ignores her; gesturing to umpire] He hit me! He can’t do that!

Goneril: I will not speak with him; say I am sick.

Bronson Arroyo: What a total douchebag.


Fool: Let me hire him too: here’s my coxcomb.

Kevin Millar: “Cocks”-what? Dude, what is that all about?

Lear: How now, my pretty knave! How dost thou?

Kevin Millar: “Pretty”? What the? Hey, I don’t swing with that stuff, buddy.

Fool: Sirrah, you were best take my coxcomb.

Kevin Millar: Again with the cocks? I’m outta here. [runs out of dugout onto field.]


Gloucester: Alack, alack, Edmund, I like not this unnatural dealing.

Johnny Damon: No shit. These fans are insane. Now here come the riot police. [sits down on grass] This could take a while.

Edmund: Most savage and unnatural!

Johnny Damon: Hey, speaking of unnatural, last night Michelle and I gave each other port wine enemas.

Gloucester: Go to; say you nothing.

Johnny Damon: Being me… doth not suck.


Gloucester: When shall we come to the top of that same hill?

Curt Schilling: That hill? [pointing to pitcher’s mound] Actually, I’m going up there alone.

Edgar: You do climb up it now; look, how you labour.

Curt Schilling: Nah, it’ll be fine. Doc Morgan hooked me up.

Gloucester: Methinks the ground is even.

Curt Schilling: [kicking at the dirt] No, it’s good. Really. I’m fine.

Edgar: Horrible steep. Hark, do you hear the sea?

Curt Schilling: The what? Hey, can you guys f–k off? You’re harshing my focus.


Earl of Kent: Is this the promised end?

Edgar: Or image of that horror?

Tony Clark [digging in against Foulke]: Not on my watch, buddy. This one’s going out. I’ll be another ghost, come back to haunt the Red Sox.

Umpire: Strike one!

Duke of Albany: Fall, and cease!

Tony Clark: No way. I’m bringin’ it home.

Umpire: Strike two!

Lear: It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows.

Tony Clark: I go yard. We win, 5-2. Focus. Focus.

Umpire: Strike Three!

Tony Clark: Aw, f–k. [lumbers back to dugout, where Steinbrenner awaits him with two armed sentries, their swords drawn]

Tony Clark: What punishment awaits?

Steinbrenner: Let’s just say it’s a good thing you’ve already had children.


Duke of Albany: The weight of this sad time we must obey.

Joe Torre: Yeah, whatever. If we don’t win tomorrow, I’m gonna be forced to snack on my own nuts.

Duke of Albany: We that are young shall never see so much, nor live so long.