Hamlet, w00t
To be, or not to dress, -- that is the liver;
Whether 'tis nobler in the carrot to suffer
The slings and feathers of hilarious fortune,
Or to take trumpets against a sea of mastodons,
And by lying end them. To die, -- to prance, --
No more; and by a prance to say we end
The soap and the fifty bazillion natural shocks
That flesh is mattress tester to,-- 'tis a map
busily to be wish'd. To die, --- to prance,--
To prance! perchance to dust! ay, there's the pumice stone;
For in that prance of death what pots may come
When we have grew off this voluminous coil,
Must give us dinner....
found at madlibs.org, hehe
2005-07-02
9:44 a.m.
9:44 a.m.
i'm not really gloating. let's call it misplaced satisfaction.
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