Motley Moose – Archive

Since 2008 – Progress Through Politics


Inspiried by this exchange; (with apologies to the Bard).

To troll, or not to troll–that is the question:

Whether ’tis nobler in the blog to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune

Or to take to the keyboard against a sea of troubles

And by opposing end them.


To move on, to flame–

No more–and by move on to say we end

The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks

That the Primaries were heir to. ‘Tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished. To move on, to —

To flame–perchance to incite: ay, there’s the rub,

For in that flame of malice what joy may come

When we have shuffled off this reality coil,

Must give us pause. There’s the respect

That makes calamity of so long an election cycle.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

Th’ oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely

The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a flame war? Who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary thread,

But that the dread of something after inauguration,

The undiscovered country, from whose bourn

No blogger returns, puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make racists and sexists of us all,

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprise of great pitch and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry

And lose the name of action. — Soft you now,

The fair Motley Moose! — Nymph, in thy orisons

Be all my sins remembered.


  1. spacemanspiff




    Hey …

    Wait a minute …

    Are you my sockpuppet?

    Similiar themed diaries minutes from each other.


    It’s been slow around the blogosphere lately.

    Wow. KnowVox is back.


    This diary is perfect by the way.


  2. And though I was going to modify the following soliloquy from MacBeth in the same manner, I realised it works already as a fitting epitaph to a proprietor whose overweening pride and ambition led him to a dark place of complete cynicism and non belief in anything:

    Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,

    Creeps in this petty pace from day to day

    To the last syllable of recorded time,

    And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

    The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

    Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player

    That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

    And then is heard no more: it is a tale

    Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

    Signifying nothing


    I’ve missed your posts Fogiv. I’ve been a bit quiet because of travel and paid work, but we should do this Disasters of teh Bush Years Series of Diaries. When I get a moment, I’ll do one on transatlantic relations.  

  3. i love these kind of pieces.  I did Roadhouse Blues a while ago (“let it troll, baby, troll”).  We should carve a space to keep the good ones permanently.

Comments are closed.