Ilya - Hamlet

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March 25th, 2008

11:57 pm

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Hamlet
Oleksandr Podervyansky

"The Tragedy of Hamlet, the Honkey of Denmark"

Dramatis Personae:

Hamlet, a Danish honkey prince.

Margarita, mother of Hamlet.

The Ghost, a horrible creature carefully concealed under a sheet smeared with mud and bloody pus.

Claudius, the prince's oversexed uncle.

Sigmund Freud, a renowned psychiatrist.

Act I

Seashore. The screams of dissolute seabirds can be heard, the roaring of a walrus, and other sounds made by all and sundry sea animals. Enter Hamlet, wearing a nice comfortable sweatshirt and canvas trousers. Hamlet is carefully girt with a thin leather belt. He is barefoot, bearded and hippie-like. He is holding a huge stick in his hand.

Hamlet. I am fucking tired of swimming. Or should I swim? To swim or not to swim? The motherfucking questions are fucking with my mind. Or perhaps instead of vacillating I should pull down my pants and go for the buoys with butterfly strokes? And what next? You only do it once, and the snafu is waiting for you with a predator's grin. A cold, a hemorrhoid, a boil on the ass, a sputum-slippery floor, a doctor, a hematoma and a grave... On it there is dirty stinky Ophelia and a patch of daisies, and underneath lies the sucker who liked to go swimming. I fuck this perspective in the mouth and in the nose. (Hamlet spits into the sea and beats it up with the stick.)

Enter Claudius, the prince's oversexed uncle.

Claudius. Mon cher Hamlet! Let's go to the office! I'll give you a candy bar to taste. The Milky Way bar tastes good! (Claudius smacks his lips disgustingly, portraying the tasty candy bar.)

At the same instant, the Ghost in a dirty sheet crawls out of the sea.

The Ghost. My son, don't trust this cocksucker. The candy bar, he'll shove it up your ass.

Claudius. A-a-a-a! (Runs away.)

The Ghost. Looky here, he is afraid, the fucking chicken. He pissed at me while at the hunt, when I slept soundly. With an insidious hand he stuck his dirty penis in my ear. And the deadly gangrene made wreck of my beautiful body. I want revenge! I want to see this bastard in the slammer, answering to a murderer's "honey", or in an office wearing the pink collar, or in a yurt ass-up on the floor with Tatars fucking him in the ass!

Hamlet. You may not avenge. We must love all cocksuckers, bastards and murderers. For each of them, like everyone else, is made in God's image.

The Ghost (ironically). Maybe, you don't eat meat, too?

Hamlet. No, I don't eat meat out of principle. I just like to drink from time to time, for we are a nation famed for hospitality and generosity and can outdrink any foreigners, especially Jews and Turks.

The Ghost. What the fuck. Something is fart-stinky in the state of Denmark. When I was king, I fucked in the ass all God's images together with Leo Tolstoy. Of course, I mean it figuratively. I've hated homos since I was a child, and sent them to chemical plants to work for the glory of the Motherland. O poor Denmark, its time is out of joint.

Hamlet. Daddy, since you've become a ghost you must have gone nuts. You are saying so much bullshit it will take a week to wash it off. I told you that I cannot avenge because all the people on earth are brothers, except for Jews, Tatars, Freemasons, Negroes and Belarusians whose guts I hate. Altogether I am a humanist, unlike you, daddy. All you want is to drink vodka and fuck poor mama on the oven so hard she is smoking. And then taste tea and throw an axe at paralyzed grandma, kick the toilet with your boots, and other stupid things I've noticed about you. Why did you have to force your own brother, in weaker health than you, to suck your dick? So no wonder he has gone bonkers. My poor mother hated you like I hate Jews. Me, her good son, she loved and nurtured. And played hen-and-rooster with me. You, daddy, run back to your sea fast or I'll hit you on the face with my stick and call my uncle, and together we'll rough you up so hard Denmark will tremble.

The Ghost. Son of a bitch! He said this to his father! Why didn't I drown you in my jizz when you were born? Why didn't I stick your head up your ass and smother you? Just wait! (The Ghost drowns himself in the sea.)

Hamlet. Fucking daddy is driving me fucking nuts. Let me go drink champagne at the bar, for my throat feels like cat's piss and I feel the unconscious desire to lick hot teeth with a rough tongue... (Hamlet goes away, the walrus is roaring, the birds are screaming, the sea is humming.)

Act II

At the side of the stage stands a Steinway grand piano. On it lies a can of sprats. At the middle of the stage stands a Russian armchair bereft of artistic pretensions. Above them hangs the national coat of arms. The coat of arms depicts a bear. In one hand the bear holds a hammer, and in the other a balalaika. This symbolizes the beast's industrious and fun-loving nature. In the armchair sits Margarita, Hamlet's mother, sewing a collar to a Russian shirt. She is singing a Russian folk tune. Treading softly like a homo, enter Claudius, Hamlet's oversexed uncle.

Claudius. Today I took a stroll at a Danish beach with your beautiful son. I was going to give him a very tasty candy bar, but he didn't take it, the retard.

Margarita. How curious!

Claudius (to himself). I will fuck him. (to Margarita) The Milky Way bar tastes good!

Margarita (gently). You rascal.

Claudius. Something stinks in the office, as if someone shat on the floor and didn't clean up after himself. Open the window, dickheads, let in fresh air.

Two dickheads in Russian shirts and boots promptly open the window. At the same instant, the Ghost flies in right through it.

The Ghost. Aha, you bastards! You all pull down your pants and stand ass-up! Now you'll know what snafu means, flush the toilet, motherfucking Freemasons.

Claudius, Margarita and the dickheads obey the command of the Ghost, who is laughing savagely and flying round the office.

Claudius. My Ghost, we are doing everything all right. We feel anger and hatred for all the Jews and Freemasons and every day perform the national anthem on the balalaika in a choir. The Jews and Turks fear us, the national prestige grows stronger, and every day the percentage of fats in butter increases. Dickheads are happy, their faces look sated. We have so many fewer cocksuckers, they all bust their asses off at chemical plants in the Ukraine. All pussylickers are sent to the Arctic.

Enter Hamlet. He is drunk like ten pigs. In one hand he holds a stick, and in the other a bottle of champagne.

The Ghost. Look, my son, these are Jews and Freemasons. Hit them in the liver with your stick, and then report to me. Is everything clear?

Hamlet. Daddy, everything will be the best, don't you worry.

Hamlet hits everyone with his stick, then smashes the national coat of arms, pours the champagne into the grand piano and throws the sprats inside. He hits the grand piano with his stick. The grand piano rings.

The Ghost. My son, this is a piano, not Jews, you shouldn't smash it. I bought it for hard currency.

Hamlet. Fuck all pianos, and hard currency, and all Jews.

Hamlet hits the Ghost with his stick. The Ghost drops down. On the floor lie the corpses of those murdered by Hamlet. Inside the grand piano, the sprats are peacefully floating. Enter Sigmund Freud. His spectacles gleam mysteriously in the darkness.

Hamlet (slowly sobering up). Let's draw the conclusions. I bashed the brains out of my daddy. And mama, and my own dear uncle. I broke expensive furniture, and smashed the national coat of arms. Death and ruins lie everywhere. I will drink no more, although what reasonable alternative is there? Poor Denmark! To hell go enterprises of great pitch and moment.

Hamlet rips open his sweatshirt. Quiet music plays, and a pleasant voice sings a Russian sailors' song. Sigmund Freud approaches Hamlet, sticks a syringe in his ass, and takes him away to the insane asylum. On the stage appear seven sailors in scary black overcoats. The sailors' song grows louder. The sailors are tap-dancing to its cheerful sounds.

Curtain.

Tags: translation, ukraine

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Comments

From:	spamsink
Date:	March 26th, 2008 07:24 am (UTC)

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- А это что за пропеллер?
- Это? (приглядывается) А, это Шекспир!

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From:	ygam
Date:	March 27th, 2008 04:07 am (UTC)

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Это Александр Сергеевич.

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From:	spamsink
Date:	March 27th, 2008 04:18 am (UTC)

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Я понял, кто автор текста. Аллюзия была на "turning in one's grave".

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From:	shaulreznik
Date:	March 26th, 2008 07:41 am (UTC)

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Mon cher Hamlet! Let's go to the office!

Жаль, рифма пропала.

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From:	ygam
Date:	March 27th, 2008 03:06 am (UTC)

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Там их много пропало.

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From:	_under_score_
Date:	March 26th, 2008 11:45 am (UTC)

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Блестяще.

"we are a people" я бы поправил, если только так не задумано :)

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From:	ygam
Date:	March 26th, 2008 05:16 pm (UTC)

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Спасибо.

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From:	syarzhuk
Date:	March 30th, 2008 06:14 am (UTC)

You can't translate Tuzik as Milky Way!

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Original: Канхвету дам тобі я посмоктати. Канхвета очєнь класна, Тузік вкусний. (Клавдій гидотно плямка, ізображая вкусний нехуйовий Тузік.)

Your translation: I'll give you a candy bar to taste. The Milky Way bar tastes good! (Claudius smacks his lips disgustingly, portraying the tasty candy bar.)

The Tuzik candy is small and sweet, and Claudius uses "посмоктати" - to suck on - obviously putting sexual innuendo into his words.
The Milky Way bar is large, it's something you bite off. It has no sexual meaning (Mars bar is somewhat different, though :) ).
Translate it as generic candy, Altoids or anything small, but please please not as Milky Way.

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