Chertoff gets "feeling"

CW FISHER Why does America's Homeland Security director, who's also an Israeli citizen, feel another terrorist attack coming in his gut? Michael Chertoff has a highly sensitive gut. He should maybe lay off the Mexican. Because right now his gut is screamin' at him. Another big terrorist attack is coming! He doesn't know where, he doesn't know when, he doesn't know how, why, or who's going to do it, but it's coming this summer, baby, and it's going to be a blockbuster! Fortunately for all of us single-citizenship Americans who have no place else to run to, nobody's paying any attention to him. Our reaction? Honey, let's take the kids to Six Flags. Go quietly. He may not notice. We don’t need him going red. Now a little Shakespeare, in prose form, to better reveal the true flow of Hamlet's famous speech. HAMLET: To be, or not to be--that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune Or to take arms against a sea of troubles And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep-- No more--and by a sleep to say we end The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep-- To sleep--perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub, For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes calamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of th' unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscovered country, from whose bourn No traveller returns, 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 enterprise of great pitch and moment With this regard their currents turn awry And lose the name of action. -- Soft you now, The fair Ophelia! -- Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remembered.