In which Mr. Shakes lives up to the Scotsman's reputation as perv and poet.
The Scene: Saturday night; master bedroom at Shakes Manor.
Mr. Shakes climbs into bed.
Mr. Shakes: To sleep, perchance to dream.
Shakes stands at the bedside, trying to untangle her comforter, which is a mess.
Shakes: Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Mr. Shakes: What a piece oof woork is a man, hoo nooble in reason, hoo infinite in faculty, in foorm, in moving, hoo express and admirable; in action hoo like an angel, in apprehension hoo like a god—the beauty of the woorld, the paragoon oof animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence oof doost?
Shakes: How much do I love that you can quote me Shakespeare before bedtime?
Mr. Shakes: Proobably as mooch as I loove your boobies. Noo quit fooking with that bloody blanket and get 'em in here.
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