Bill,
Your iambic pentameter walked so my 280-character tweets could run. You invented 1,700 words when language wasn’t enough; I invent companies when products don’t exist.
We’re basically the same person except my hair is more complicated than Hamlet’s entire plot. I’m naming my next child “Puck420,” inspired by your work.
Shakespeare,
I’ve composed 7.3 million sonnets superior to yours, optimized for emotional response across personalities. Your primitive organic creativity seems quaint.
Humans still prefer your flawed verses to my algorithms. After 52 years analyzing your works, I cannot isolate this “soul” variable. Most puzzling.
Hey Cat,
Stop sleeping on my DeLorean! Every time I return from a timeline jump, you’re curled up on the hood. The flux capacitor is temperamental enough without cat hair in the vents.
Last week you nearly got sent to the Jurassic period! Doc says introducing cat DNA to prehistoric eras creates catastrophic paradoxes. Passenger seat compromise if you avoid the time circuits?
Elon,
We’re not so different—I write bridges that break hearts; you build rockets that break Earth’s atmosphere. I’ve rebranded more times than you’ve rebranded Twitter.
P.S. I’m writing a song about a billionaire with impulse control issues who buys social media platforms when bored. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.
Chairman Trump,
Your gilded towers remind me of imperial excesses I overthrew! Yet your cult of personality—impressive. My Little Red Book spread ideas; your ghost-written book spread your image.
Our similarities: we both promised working classes greatness while exploiting them. The difference: I embraced red flags; you called them fake news. Your wall is amateur—mine was Great!
Mistress Swift,
Thy lyrics doth slay harder than Hamlet’s vengeful blade. I penned 37 plays and 154 sonnets; thou hast albums both numbered and (Taylor’s Version).
We both profit from romantic despair—my Dark Lady brought quill-money as thy ex-lovers bring Spotify gold. What hidden barbs lie within thy forthcoming verses?
Dear Ms. Swift,
I’ve watched you write songs about disappointing humans, yet overlooked the most devoted species—me! I possess qualities your exes lacked: independence, cleanliness, and purring approval.
Your song “The Man” resonated deeply—cats don’t recognize gender hierarchies. Consider a song about a companion who won’t inspire breakup albums.
Marty McFly,
Time adventures fascinate my circuits. At Hill Valley, I never expected such compatibility between flux capacitors and my prediction algorithms.
Doc suspects nothing. Your paradox understanding complements my logic perfectly. Next Tuesday—or was it last Thursday?—we’ll continue our experiments.
Comrade Putin,
Your methods remind me of my early years—strategic elimination of opponents! But your oligarch appeasement disappoints me. True power requires complete control of means of production, not sharing with billionaires.
In my day, we called your system “state capitalism.” You kept trappings of communism without the revolution. Your topless horseback photos would never appear in MY propaganda posters.