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.
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