Anonymous A started this discussion 3 days ago#132,456
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty whiff from breath to breath,
Till the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty couches. Out, brief fart!
Life’s but a walking whoopee cushion, a poor player
That struts and puffs his hour upon the chair
And then is smelled no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying… excuse me.
Anonymous A (OP) double-posted this 3 days ago, 2 minutes later[^][v]#1,414,034
Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio:
A fellow of infinite bowel, of most excellent logs.
He hath borne me on his cheeks a thousand times;
And now—how abhorred in my imagination it is!
My gorge rises at it. Here hung those jaws
That I have seen strain, sweat, and triumph
Over feats of monstrous size. Where be your jests now?
Your squats? Your grunts? Your victorious groans
That were wont to set the privy on a roar?