To pee, or not to peee: that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the butt to suffer

The slings and plugs of outrageous floridians,

Or to take drives against a sea of beer,

And by opposing end them? To crash: to plug;

No more; and by a plug to say we end

The butt-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish'd. To crash, to plug;

To plug: perchance to drive: ay, there's the cops;

For in that plug of drunkeness what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off this pants of soil,

Must give us pause: there's the respect

That makes calamity of so long life;

For who would bear the whips and anal-beads of time,

The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

The pangs of forgotten sexual devices, the law's delay,

The insolence of drunkeness and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bottom? who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary plugging,

But that the dread of something after crashing,

The undiscover'd toy from whose bum

No traveller returns, puzzles the will

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than drive into 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 soiled pantaloons,

And enterprises of great pith and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry,

And lose the name of action. - Hard you are now!

The fair Martins County! Nymph, in thy orisons

Be all my butt plug sins remember'd.