To blog, or not to blog, that is the question
Whether 'tis nobler on the web to suffer
The flames and errors of untrammelled Google
Or to shun all blogs about a load of rubbish
And by your silence, end them. To write, to spout --
Rhubarb -- and by our words confess we know
So little, and the thousand posts we've made
are useless. 'Tis a sad confession
Devoutly to be wished. To write, to spout --
To spout -- perchance to mean: ay, there's the rub
For just the accidental meaning that is left
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the weblog
That takes cryptography and SSL.
For who would bear the quips and brave the flames,
The poster's scorn, the loud bans of language
The bangs of despised Perl, the core's decay
The indolence of Office, and the burns
That posting rubbish on Artima takes
When he himself might his respect retain
With all his odd kin? Who would Python use,
To code and edit for all a weary life,
But that the dread of something more like Perl,
The undiscovered language, from whose grip
Few programmers return, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear our current code
Than well refactor as we know we should?
Thus blogging does make idiots of us all,
And thus the name still due for registration
Becomes the subject of a case of tort,
And enterprises famous for a moment
With this regard their lawyers out to lunch
And lose their names in action -- Soft you now,
The Technorati! -- Dude, in thy orisons
Be all my code remembered