TheGodInAGreyHoodie
Experienced Starter w/First Big Contract
- Joined
- Nov 12, 2007
- Messages
- 6,621
- Reaction score
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To post in the game thread, or not to post: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous comment,
Or to take arms against a sea of bad posting,
And by opposing end them? To watch: to root;
No more; and by a drunken stupor to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks of an opposing TD.
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To punt, to fumble;
To punt: perchance to improve field position: ay, there's the rub;
For in that blocked punt of what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long a field position;
For who would bear the pads and scorns of time of posesion,
The opposition wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of incomplete passes, the Ty Law's delay of game,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the offsides penality,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under heavy pads,
But that the dread of something after a failed 4th down,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No fan 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 cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous comment,
Or to take arms against a sea of bad posting,
And by opposing end them? To watch: to root;
No more; and by a drunken stupor to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks of an opposing TD.
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To punt, to fumble;
To punt: perchance to improve field position: ay, there's the rub;
For in that blocked punt of what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long a field position;
For who would bear the pads and scorns of time of posesion,
The opposition wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of incomplete passes, the Ty Law's delay of game,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the offsides penality,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under heavy pads,
But that the dread of something after a failed 4th down,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No fan 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 cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.
