To Marinade, or not to Marinade: that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous Brining, Or to take arms against a sea of Injecting, And by opposing end it? To smoke: to sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks of that Grill that wont light, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To Rub, to Rub; To Rub: perchance to figure out what to Rub: ay, there's the rub; For in that lack of sleep what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal smoker, Must give us pause: there's the respect That makes calamity of so long hours; For who would bear the Grill marks and temperatures of too much smoke, The temperatures wrong, the proud man's old smoker dies, The pangs of despised foiling, the days delay, The insolence of the cold and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy Internal Temperature, When he himself might his BBQ Sauce make With a bare Slab of Brisket? who would his cold butt bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary overnight smoke, But that the dread of that after death, The undiscover'd Burt Ends from whose bourn No Smoke returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to other smokers that we know not of? Thus those dang temps that seem to never change does make cowards of us all; And thus the native Southerners of resolution Is sicklied o'er the lack of bark, And enterprises of great Mesquite and Hickory With this regard their Cherry Wood turned moldy, And lose the name of the dry rub. – Wet rub you now! The fair Egg Smoker! Colorful, in thy shape Be all my smokes remember'd.