To prune or not to prune
that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous impaction,
Or to take arms against a sea of TP,
And by opposing end them? To flush, to poop
No more; and by a poop to say we end
The fart-ache, and the thousand farty after shocks
No fresh air to: 'tis a flatulation
Devoutly to be wished. To flush, to poop;
To poop, perchance to dream – ay, there's the rub:
For in that flush of poop what dreams may come,
When we have extruded out the mighty coil,
Must give us pause – there's the respect
That makes calamity of no poop, strife.
For who would bear down the whips and scorns of time,
The impactor's wrong, the proud man's epic continence,
The pangs of despised assblood, the log's delay,
The insolence of orifice, ASS! it burns,
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bottom? Who would flatus bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary strife,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No turtlehead returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear down ills we have
And fly to other stalls we know not of?
Thus manual-disimpaction doth 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 pitch and moment,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of impaction. Soft stool now,
The fair Orifice! Nymph, in thy nether regions
Be all my sins remembered.
*FLUSH!*
(C) 4/25/11 "Maven"
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