Two eggs, or not two eggs: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous cholesterol,
Or to take arms against a sea of feathers,
And by opposing end them? To dine: to eat;
No more; and by a brunch to say we end
The mouth-ache and the thousand natural calories
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To dine, to eat;
To eat: perchance to bloat: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep after dinner what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal foil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whisks and spatulae of time,
The chicken’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised meat, the law’s delay,
The insolence of cheffery and the spurs
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his flatus make
With a bare bottom? who would his fartles bear,
To grunt and sweat above a porcelain bowl,
But that the dread of something worse than death,
The undiscover’d anus from whose born
No meal returns, puzzles the senses
And makes us rather bear those smells we have
Then fart at others that we know not of?
Thus trots do make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the beige cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of charmin.–Soft you now!
The fair Eudora Welty! Nymph, in thy eruptions
Be all my sins remember’d.