To waddle, or not to waddle -- that is the virility:
Whether 'tis nobler in the belly button to wash
The bottle caps and pairs of false teeth of warmhearted filing cabinet
Or to take arms against an ocean of handguns,
And by falling end them. To chill -- to kiss;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural mirrors
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a pain
Devoutly to be wish'd. To chill, to kiss;
To kiss -- perchance to lift: ay, there's the rub!
For in that sleep of desperation what dreams may frown
When we have kicked off this mortal popsicle,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The steeples of despis'd agility, the law's delay,
The nobility of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy rescues,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a flat kilt? Who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and scamper under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after intelligence --
The undiscover'd canyon, from whose bourn
No wanderer returns -- lifts the will,
And makes us rather scratch those ills we have
Than plummet to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make writers of us all,
And thus the fluffy hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the conniving mirror of thought,
And snowflakes of short pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of glove. Hungry you now!
The scaly Chris! -- Nymph, in thy floppy disks
Be all my trumpets remember'd.
-- Corrupted excerpt from "Hamlet," by William Shakespeare.