To popcorn, or not to popcorn, that is the question;
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
the slings and arrows of outrageous butter.
Or to take arms against a sea of salt.
And by opposing, eat it. To eat, to sleep;
No more, and by a sleep to say we eat
The butter and the thousand natural flavors
That popcorn is heir to — ’tis a consumption
Devoutly to be wish’d.
To eat, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream about eating. Ay, where’s the butter tub?
For in that sleep-eating what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this aluminum foil,
Must give us pause. There’s also the respect
That makes calamity of so long an Orville shelf-life,
for who would bear the whipped butter and corns of time,
Th’Redenbacher’s wrong, the proud man’s Jiffy Pop,
The pangs of popcorn’s love, the pop’s delay,
The insolence of burnt office popcorn, and the spurns
That patient merit of the’unworthy kernel,
When the popping itself might its quietus make
In a beeping microwave? Who would kernels bear,
To crack and break under a weary crown
But that the dread of something like the dentist
The undiscovered malpractitioner from whose chair
No patient returns, puzzles the bill,
And makes us rather bear those teeth we have
Than implant others that we know not of?
Thus dentists do make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of New Year’s resolutionaries
are sickled o’er with the pale cast of popcorn
And enterprises of jiffy pops and margarine
With this regard their napkins turn dirty,
And lose the name of hungry.