Perchance to.......AI it.
Do Shakespeare's 'To be or not to be' soliloquy as Trump musing over his own mortality. Onion style would be good.
Nobody’s ever done mortality like me.
To be, or not to be—tremendous question, maybe the greatest question, people are saying it, nobody’s ever asked it better. Whether ’tis more winning—very unfair, by the way—to suffer the slings and arrows, total witch hunt, of outrageous fortune, fake fortune, rigged fortune—or to take arms, beautiful arms, the best arms, against a sea of troubles—so many troubles, you wouldn’t believe—and by opposing, end them. End them completely. I end things. I’m very good at ending things.
To die—to sleep—maybe. People are talking about it. To sleep, perchance to dream—though I’ve had the best dreams, really incredible dreams—ay, there’s the deal, the art of the deal, because in that sleep of death what dreams may come—nobody knows, very mysterious, could be fantastic, could be a disaster—must give us pause. Total pause. A pause like you’ve never seen.
There’s the respect that makes calamity of so long life. Believe me, life—very long for some people, not so long for others, very unfair system we have. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time—terrible time, badly managed—the oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s insult—many insults, I get more than anybody—the pangs of despised love, the law’s delay (don’t get me started), the insolence of office, and the spurns that patient merit of the unworthy takes—so unfair, the most unfair—when he himself might his quietus make with a bare bodkin—small, very small, not impressive—who would do that? Nobody strong, I can tell you.
Who would fardels bear—to grunt and sweat under a weary life—very bad optics—when he could just…not? Except—the dread of something after death, the undiscovered country—never been there, people say it’s unbelievable, others say not so good—from whose bourn no traveler returns—very restrictive travel policy—puzzles the will, and makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others that we know not of. Smart, in a way. Very smart.
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all—though I’m very brave, everybody knows it—and thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought—too much thinking, overrated frankly—and enterprises of great pitch and moment—like mine, very great—lose the name of action.
Soft you now. The fair Ophelia—tremendous person, really—Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered—but only the fake ones, because frankly, I’ve done a lot of perfect things. Perfect. Nobody’s ever done mortality like me.
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