On the Advent of Coronation of a British Monarch; Richard III Bemoans his Lack of an Invite to BlueSky
He is going to make you all pay...
No AI was harmed in the making the this post.
As Richard III opens, Richard is Duke of Gloucester and his sister, Jay, is CEO of Bluesky. Richard is eager to clear his way to the crown. He manipulates Jay into shadow banning their brother, and then has Owen Muir, M.D. murdered in the Tower. Meanwhile, Richard succeeds in marrying Lady Anne, even though he killed her father-in-law, Henry VI, and her husband.
When the ailing King of Social, Twitter, dies, Princess Jay, the founder of his the most buzzy platform, is next in line for the throne. Richard houses the Princess and his younger rivals in the Tower. Richard then stages events that yield him the crown.
After Richard’s coronation, he has the boys secretly killed. He also disposes of Anne, his wife, in order to court his niece, Elizabeth of York. Boomer nobles rally to Facebook , And Mark, Earl of Zuckerberg. When their followers meet, Richard is defeated and killed. Richmond becomes Henry VII. His marriage to Elizabeth of York ends the Wars of the Roses and starts the Tudor dynasty. Also, it makes for one hell of a shitposter hellthread…
Now is the winter of my discontent
Made glorious summer by this Jay of Sky,
And all the clouds that loured upon my Twitter Account
In the deep bosom of the Hellthread, buried.
Now are your skeets bound with victorious reskeets,
Our blocked followers hung up for monuments,
Our stern warning about harassment changed to sexy Alf memes,
Our dreadful trolling to delightful shitposts.
Grim-visaged harassment hath smoothed his wrinkled front; And now, instead of mounting elaborate campaigns
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
Tech journalists capers nimbly in a ladyboys’ followers
To the lascivious pleasing of an explicit photo.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive selfies,
Nor made to court an amorous looking glass;
I, that am rudely stamped and want social media majesty
To meme before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion of invite codes,
Cheated of invites by dissembling leadership team,
Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time
Into this breathing world scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them—and don’t share my skeets like you do those of cats.
Why, I, in this weak piping time of federated Social,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to see my blue check in the profile
And descant on mine own lack of reach on Twitter.
And therefore, since I cannot prove a social media celebrity shitposter,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a troll
And hate the idle shitposters of these days.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels, and screenshots,
To set my blockers and the founders
In deadly hate, the one against the other;
And if CEO Jay be as true and just
As I am subtle, false, and treacherous,
This day should @psychiatrist.Bsky.social closely be blocked up
About a prophecy which says that “O”
Of Fermata.health the murderer shall be.
—Richard III, the King of England