To All Gutless Gentlemen Who Quoth “No Drama Queens” On Their Hingeth Profiles: Just Sup Right On Mine Already! You Churlish, Guts-Griping Clotpoles! – Lady Macbeth

Come, you squires, that tend on bawdy thoughts, UNSEX me here. Even with so wanton and venereal an opening line in my biography, thou still stay’st away! Come to my woman’s BREASTS. Does even that not tempt ye!? I have given SUCK. Not a single match from my painted rectangle!

Well, fie, you murd’ring ministers! Screw yourselves to the frigging place for never supping right! A pox upon all your cocks! Ye beslubbering, clay-brained maggot-pies!

Ah… And now that my saucy temper hath been assuaged, let me declare all my lovely traits in the hope that your divinely calloused thumbs will yield to the right:

A more encouraging and supportive companion ye shalt never behold. Many of you proffer fancies for adventurous escapades, judging by the boundless variety of portraits set atop snowy mountains, rocky cliffs, and yeasty alehouses. I shall gladly support ye in all your pastimes, including but not limited to, jousting, archery, and knucklebones.

My eyes also detect penchants for excellent grooming, as evidenced by the infinite sum of looking glass self-portraits concocted inside squalid latrines. It will be my pleasure to inform ye of which doublet, ruff, or kirtle becomes your noble physiques. Or disguises your reeky pignuts. Whichsoever ye dost preferest.

Given that many of you habitually devote your leisure time to posing in dankish toilets, you must surely view physical purification with the utmost severity? I can assure ye that I taketh hand bathing very gravely. Such fervent cleanliness is most critical in our plague-riddled seasons. Let me be your confidante and steer ye towards the most effective way to purify your rank paws.

Ye biographies tell many glorious tales of ardent dreams and magnificent fantasies. Some of you profess the urge to sail away to exotic, faraway climes, like The Yucatan, Easter Island, and Ibiza. Others desire to take up their quill, compose an epic manuscript, and retire on plentiful profits. Oh, such puckish and folly-fallen imaginings. Yet, despite these daring plans, I note with dismay that none of you wish to butcher a royal monarch! Perhaps this is because you fear the retribution of those beetle-headed Hingeth site moderators? Let me mollify your concerns and assure ye all that I am not afeared. This is why considering the hand of an actual, literal, bona fide, bona Dench D.R.A.M.A. Q.U.E.E.N. will be to your benefit.

Whatsoever it takes for you to reach the top, I will aid ye. I admit that slaughtering a king or other fat-kidneyed sovereign would be my desired choice. Yet, I will provide unwavering succor if you would rather slay your droning, toad-spotted line manager. Or your goatish, hell-hated regional director. To be clear: it will be your duties to commit the brutal and bloody regicides and/or managercides. But, in spirit, I shall enhance your ruttish codpieces and provide ye with the courage to hold aloft your glistening rapiers and achieve climactic exaltation.

Art your pricking thumbs compelled to veer clockwise now, my lords…? Allow me to assist ye: Right! Damned thumbs! One, two, — why, then ‘tis time to do’t!

Hark! What is that I hear? ‘Tis the humming of my rectangle! I have a coupling— oh, ‘tis merely a message from my WhatsAppeth group babble with the Weird Sisters. Their jarring, flap-mouthed tones tell me that it isn’t my queenly credentials that prevents ye phalanges from advancing rightwards, but my dotage and my portraits! ‘Tis true that I am not betwixt the typic 18-35 age group, but more like 400-1000. For those of you with defective cognitive talents, that means I was hatched somewhere betwixt the 11th and 17th centuries. Why, perhaps your inadequate wits are another reason for such hesitant thumbing! For I am indeed a shrewd and cunning empress and no doubt much brighter than ye loggerheaded, hedge-born, hugger-muggers.

And, yes, mine visage does freely reject uncomplicated smiles in favor of a January face: frostbitten, icy, and fiscally ruined by that spongy, elf-skinned epoch known as Christmastide. Mark my words: ye shalt never behold my visage framed by a floppy-eared and snout-nosed pooch filter!

Oh, ye natures are too full o’ the milk of human idiocy. No. I do not need your doughy digits to sup right upon my excellent profile. All the pulses of my vibrator will sweeten this clitoral glans!

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