The Daily Cartoon and Live Briefing: Friday, December 19, 2025

Notably: I asked Gemini to give me Hamlet’s to-be-or-not-to-be soliloquy as George Carlin would have delivered it. Gemini at first refused to go all-Carlin, withholding adjudication on fucks, for example. I insisted. It relented. Here’s the outcome:

(He walks out, wearing black, looking tired and pissed off. He adjusts the mic stand, looks at the floor, then looks up with that crooked, cynical grin.)

So I’ve been asking myself the big question. You know the one. The big, unanswerable, multiple-choice mind-fuck of a question.

To be… or not to fucking be.

That is the question!

Is it nobler in the mind to just sit there and eat shit? To let the universe pelt you with “slings and arrows of outrageous fucking fortune”? And let’s be honest, “outrageous fortune” is just a polite way of saying the deck is rigged and the dealer is an asshole.

Do we just stand there and take it? Or do we grab a shovel, wade into this sea of bullshit, and say, “Hey! I’m shutting this operation down!”?

Because think about it. Dying? It’s just sleeping. That’s it. It’s a nap. A permanent, dirt-nap. And who doesn’t love a good fucking nap? You end the heartache. You end the back pain. You end the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to—which is just fancy poetry talk for taxes, hemorrhoids, and prostate exams. It is a consummation devoutly to be fucking wished!

But… and there’s always a “but,” isn’t there? There’s always some fine print in the contract.

To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there’s the fucking rub.

See, that’s where they get you. That’s the catch. Because in that sleep of death, once we’ve shuffled off this mortal coil—once we’ve dropped the meat sack—what kind of dreams are coming? That’s the part that makes you pause. That’s the thing that turns a tragedy into a long, drawn-out, painful sitcom.

Because honestly, who would put up with this shit? Who would bear the whips and scorns of time?

• The oppressor’s wrong?

• The proud man’s bullshit attitude?

• The pangs of despised love? (Which hurts like a motherfucker, by the way.)

• The law’s delay?

• The insolence of office?

Who would stand there and take lip from some unworthy, pencil-pushing, bureaucratic prick when you could just settle your own account with a bare bodkin? Just a sharp fucking stick! Poof, you’re done!

Who would carry these heavy-ass burdens, grunting and sweating under a weary fucking life? Nobody!

Except… for the dread of something after death. That “undiscovered country.” The place where the border patrol is so strict, no traveler ever comes back to write a review. We don’t know what the fuck is over there. Could be heaven. Could be hell. Could be a waiting room where you have to listen to soft jazz for eternity.

And that puzzles the will, doesn’t it? It makes us rather bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of. We stick with the devil we know because the devil we don’t know might have a bigger fucking pitchfork.

And that is how conscience makes cowards of us all. The native hue of resolution—that “let’s do this shit” attitude—gets sicklied over with the pale cast of thought. You start thinking, and suddenly, great enterprises, big fucking plans, moments of pure action… they lose the name of action. They turn into nothing. They turn into sitting on the couch, watching CNN, and waiting to die the slow way.

(He pauses, looks off stage, shakes his head.)

Soft you now! The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons… be all my fucking sins remembered. And believe me, sweetheart, it’s gonna take a while to read that list.

(He gives the finger to the sky and walks off.)

..to Sleep, drunk of azure, to sleep like a bird dreaming in the branches,

To Sleep, like a fish in the shade of the reeds, In the calm and oblivion of an eternal Sunday

–From Sylvain Bonmariage.

The Cartoon and Live Briefing Archive.