Written by Modern William Shakespeare in 2025
“Alas, My Apple Hath Gone Mad!” – If Shakespeare Had to Deal with Autocorrect
Right then, good gentle readers! Gather ’round and lend thine ears (or rather, thine eyes) to the first installment in our most mirthful series.
Today, we shall plunge headfirst into the chaotic world of William Shakespeare and that most mischievous of digital gremlins: Autocorrect.
Imagine, if you will, the Bard himself, quill cast aside (for the moment!), attempting to craft a tender missive to his beloved Anne Hathaway on his newfangled “iPhoneth” (a contraption most curious!). The scene is set: a dimly lit study, papers strewn about, and the frustrated grumblings of a literary genius battling… technology.
His thumb hovers over the glass screen, attempting to transcribe the very poetry that flows so effortlessly from his soul. But lo! The machine, in its infinite (and often idiotic) wisdom, hath other plans.
Shakespeare (typing): My luv doth gr…
Autocorrect: My SUV doth gr…
Shakespeare pauses, furrowing his brow. “SUV? What monstrous beast is this? Surely mine affections are not directed towards a… vehicle?”
He pecks again, more carefully this time.
Shakespeare (typing): My luv doth grow as a summer…
Autocorrect: My luv doth crow as a summer…
The Bard stares at the screen, aghast. “Crow? Mine love doth caw? Is this some ill omen? Hath my fair Anne been transformed into a feathered fiend?” He sighs dramatically, running a hand through his thinning hair. “This infernal device mocks me!”
He tries once more, his frustration mounting.
Shakespeare (typing): Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lov…
Autocorrect: Shall I compare thee to a plumber’s day? Thou art more low…
“A plumber?” Shakespeare cries, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “By the heavens! Is this sorcery? Am I cursed to speak in riddles and base professions?”
He attempts a simpler phrase, hoping to outwit the digital meddler.
Shakespeare (typing): Good morrow, sweet Anne.
Autocorrect: Good moron, sweet Ann.
A vein throbs in Shakespeare’s temple. “Good moron? I shall not! I, the writer of kings and queens, shall not address my wife as a… a simpleton!”
Defeated, for now, Shakespeare throws the “iPhoneth” onto the velvet cushion with a huff. He picks up his trusty quill, the familiar feel of it a comfort after the digital debacle.
Shakespeare (writing): “My dearest Anne,” he pens, the words flowing freely, “Thy beauty doth eclipse the fairest morn, thy wit doth sparkle like the stars at night…”
He smiles, the frustration melting away. Some things, it seems, are best left to the timeless elegance of ink and parchment. Though, one can only imagine the further autocorrected calamities that await the Bard in future episodes. Stay tuned, gentle readers, for the digital misadventures of Modern William Shakespeare!