To kill the bitch, or not to kill the bitch: that is the question. Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the menstrually-induced backchat and lacklustre cottage pies of that outrageous hussy, or to roll up one’s sleeves and give her a good going over with a rolling pin – and by opposing her, end her. To have a lie-in, at last; and by a ‘lie-in’ to say that I end the ear-ache and the thousand unpleasant shocks that her flesh is heir to (you really should see her first thing in the morning; a sight most unseemly; not exactly Juliet), ’tis a ‘consummation’ devoutly to be wish’d. To have a good ten hours: perchance to dream or listen to the radio while scratching one’s testicles: there’s the rub; for in that epic repose what dreams may come when I have shoved off that mercifully mortal woman, must give one pause: there indeed is too much rub, which makes calamity of late morning. And stuff, and things, fair Ophelia. Now get thee to a fucking nunnery.

Hamlet, suburban Copenhagen, 1599.