To Order, or Not to Order, That is the Question

To order, or not to order, that is the question— Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer The grumbles and rumbles of an empty stomach, Or to take arms against a sea of hunger, And by delivery end it. To eat—to feast— No more; and by a feast to say we end The heartache and the thousand culinary shocks That flesh is heir to—’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To eat, to feast— To feast, perchance to bloat—ay, there’s the rub, For in that feast of cheese what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal pang, Must give us pause—there’s the respect That makes calamity of such glorious fare. For who would bear the whips and scorns of salads, The dry bread’s taste, the microwaved leftovers, The pangs of despised hunger, the table’s empty, The insolence of diet, and the spurns That patient merit of the unfilled plate, When he himself might his quietus make With a mere phone call? Who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a famished life, But that the dread of something indigested, That greasy slice whose foul breath doth reek, 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.—Soft you now, The phone!—Pizza, in thy name Be all my sins remembered.