Conquer Club

to be or not to be thats the question but whats the answer

42

and anyone who remembers Rennassance Man with Danny Divito knows that the "Double D MC is letting it be."

Hamlet's momma she's the queen
Bites it in the final scene
Drinks a glass of funky wine
Now she's Satan's Valentine

Hmm, Hamlet was contemplating suicide, I am not. Are you? Pretty straightforward isn't it?

no le entiendo a tu mamada esa

me vale madres chingate
( . . )
) (
( . y . )
) . (
( # c===8

bringing back first social lounge thread

Kayla wrote:bringing back first social lounge thread

Wow you found the search button...

Wow. This place had sad beginnings.

"To be or not to be?"

Either suicidal, appreciative of Shakespeare, or just an idiot who thinks being familiar some of the most well known lines ever written makes him clever.

And here am I thinking that writing this makes me clever.

Hurrah.

NOT to be!

see the like in my sig

the anwser is FIRCOAL WILL KILL YOU ALL! SO WHO CARES! BOW DOWN TO ME!

Uh, no. Besides, you still haven't told me what Fircoal means.

I'm the king!

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 heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. 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,
The 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 the 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 undiscover'd 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 enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

I'm more of an Othello fan, myself