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Hey, this is Carl. Obviously if you are
reading this you have way to much spare time and no social life. So you have two choices. 1)Send me $10000 and
a new ferrari or 2) get your stupid pointless no goos self outside and make some friends. You may be calling me
an ass hole right now but you will thank me in the long run. Option 1 would be the one i recommend but option 2
is always ok.
4-2-04
Carl Again .Good news today,
I finished 1st at the district track meet in the mile and a half. Thats right, I smoked all your asses and im entering
this to rub it in.
Guess what folks. Saturns rings are made of dirt. Wow, all that money spent for research
of Saturns rings and they are made of dirt. We could have spent no money and just walked outside to find dirt.
Kinda sux huh.Jackass scientists. All that $ could have gone to me. Danm. That would have been a lot better in
my opinion.
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- HAMLET: To be, or not to be--that is the question:
- Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
- The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
- Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
- And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep--
- No more--and by a sleep to say we end
- The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
- That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
- Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep--
- To sleep--perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub,
- For in that sleep of death 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 life.
- For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
- Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely
- The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
- The insolence of office, and the spurns
- That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
- When he himself might his quietus make
- With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
- To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
- But that the dread of something after death,
- The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
- No traveller 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 enterprise of great pitch 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 remembered.
Now how the hell are we suppesed to know what that means you medival pice of crap?
Hamlet is an asshole.
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