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} The Internet Oracle amanuensed from his gigantic vats of knowledge:
}
} And what, pray tell, shalt thou do with immortality? I look upon my
} surroundings and find a pantheon of gods suited to do one thing, which
} is so exciting that they may easily forsee doing it ever after. Thor is
} just so simple-minded as to be amused with the throwing of hammers and
} such, and hence finds happiness in the eternity. When thy heartburn of
} life is extinguished for the gushing stomach of immortality, what will
} your brain do? If it has no need to fuel its fire with fattening,
} greasy foods of all kinds, then surely it will rebel in the fleshy
} carton it carries itself around in. Then the zotting must start.
}
} And how long will this immortality last? Extinguished artificially, the
} heartburn of life will not be content in its station in life. It wishes
} to live again: to burn, or not to burn? To surely burn. Yes! To burn or
} not to burn?
}
} To burn or not to burn: that is the question:
} Whether 'tis more contenting in the intestines to suffer
} The gas and pain of greasy pizza,
} Or to take Mylanta against a sea of grease,
} And by swallowing emulsate them? To burn: to live;
} Yet more; and by burning to say we end
} The heart-burn and the thousand natural burps
} That guts are heir to, 'tis a consummation
} Devoutly to be wish'd. To burn, to live;
} To live: perchance to answer questions: ay, there's the runs;
} For in that life of burning what questions may come
} When we have ascended the cliffs of Olympia,
} Must give us pause: there's the respect
} That makes calamity of so much gas;
} For who would bear the indigestion of time,
} The cold pizza, the proud man's costuming,
} The fangs of despised fat, the stomach's delay,
} The insolence of the gut and the urns
} That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
} When he himself might his quiet make
} With a bared Mylanta? Who would indigestion bear,
} To grunt and sweat under a weary run,
} But that the dread of something after burn,
} The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
} No traveller returns, puzzles the gut
} And makes us rather bear the indigestion we have
} Than fly to others that we know not ot?
} Thus Mylanta does make cowards of us all;
} And thus the native hue of a face emeting
} Is sicklied o'er with the brown cast of thought,
} And enterprises of great pitch and moment
} With this regard their merits lose appeal,
} And lose the name of action. Soft you now!
} The fair Lisa! Nymph, in thy orisons
} Be all my guts remember'd.
}
} You owe the Oracle the Mylanta that you were going to drink.
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![[IO]](https://kinzler.com/picons/db/domains/org/internetoracle/unknown/face.gif){kind=small}
