To eat, or not to eat. That is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of lousy service at the Olive Garden,
Or take arms against the gastric pains in the food court
And by opposing them, end them? To dine: to sup,
No more, and by sup to say we end
The stomach ache and the thousand cultural shocks
The flesh is heir to, 'tis a consommé
Devoutly to be dished. To eat; to drink
To belch, perchance to digest, aye there's the rub.
For in that postprandial state what streams may come
When we have shuffled out of this shopping mall?
There's the respect that makes calamity of so long an excursion.
For who would bear the greasy lasagna at Sbarro,
The stale bread at Subway, the paltry portion of fries at Sonic,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bologna sandwich? Who would resist the food court
But that the dread of something after dinner
Akin to that which aflicts the traveller in
The undiscover'd country, whose burn
No Imodium AD can relieve.
Thus we rather bear the gastic pangs we have
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus conscience doth make anorexics of us all.
And the native hue of voracity
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!
Williams-Sonoma! Sale table, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.
