O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo? My girlish companions at the modeling agency would make much sport of such a name. Yet my heart is thine. My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to Romeo, the more I have, for both are infinite. Were not the mask of night upon my face, a maiden blush would bepaint my cheek for that which thou heard me speak tonight, whilst we in the hot tub did frolic. Romeo, thou art the god of my idolatry!
But soft! Mercutio approacheth. A fellow of infinite jest. How he maketh me laugh! This bud of love I feel for him, by summer’s ripening breath, may prove a beauteous flow’r when next we meet. The producers avow that for our special one-on-one getaway date I shall wing him by private jet to romantic Puerto Rico. Mercutio, if that thy bent of love be honorable, and thou alarmest me not with more feverish speech of that Queen Mab person, mayhap we shall forswear our separate rooms and choose to couple tenderly in the fantasy suite.
Benvolio. Now there is a really nice guy. I would he were my bird, yet I fear I should kill him with much cherishing. As we continue on this sweetheart’s journey, gentle Benvolio, the path leadeth surely to a holy altar and a wedding made pink and wondrous by the bottomless treasure of ABC. Oh, to exchange thy love’s faithful vow for mine! Though in truth I gave thee mine before thou didst request it. I pray thee, Benvolio, think me not false, nor impute this yielding to light love, should it come to pass in the morrow’s rose ceremony that I bequeath my precious flowers to others and send thee in the limo packing.
The County Paris hath gained much favor with mom and dad—yea, he did score a great hit with all of the family on our televised pilgrimage to my beloved Ohio home. The nurse esteemeth him highly, as well, and holds Romeo but a dishclout to him. Paris, thou art a gallant, young, and noble gentleman, and thou hast comforted me marvelous much. “Venus smiles not in a house of tears,” thou spake so sweetly, when I told thee of the white-pawed pussycat that brightened my girlhood days and of the fearsome Chevrolet ’neath whose cruel wheels she untimely perished. How my heart did melt at thy tender protestations of sorrow! And the poem thou made on the cocktail napkin, that so happily did rhyme “kitten” with “smitten.” Oh, be but sworn my love, good Paris, and I’ll no longer be a cat widow.
Ay me! Fiery cousin Tybalt. Never a dull moment when he is about. And so passing fair of form and face! Forsooth, he could do underwear layouts for great Abercrombie. Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne’er saw true beauty till the night that Tybalt stepped forth from yet another gleaming limo and made haste into my trembling maiden arms. Like the nineteen others. Fie upon “cousin”! Cousin is a mere honorific. It pertaineth, if I mistake not, to some far-flung relation by brief and turbulent marriage to a maternal great aunt. My slumber need be not vexed by visions of monstrosities from recessive genes sprung forth. Yet even should the tie of blood prove nearer, rash Tybalt—O trespass sweetly urged!
Did I say trespass? Laurence. Dear, dear Friar Laurence. A man of the cloth, yet more ardent in thy wooing even than the County Paris. “What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?” quoth thou, wiping thy nose and noble chin from the chaste morning kiss I granted on our second group date. Yea, fair friar, ’twas at the petting zoo thou won my steadfast heart, there where the producers sent the six of us—thou, me, and those other suitors, now departed, that I loved so, and love truly still, each one, though cruel and rose-stingy fate too soon hath torn them from me. Oh, gods, what were their names? Thou, beloved Laurence, art with me still, now and for eternity. Yet my heart misgives. Perhaps thou may repent thy choice to flee thy craggy monastery. Or discover that thou art gay.
Only four piteous roses for the next ceremony! Tragic few! I pray thee, gentlemen, think not my passion too quickly won, nor my ’havior light. Parting would be such sweet sorrow. Two true loves must I ditch upon the morrow.
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