Tragic Play never performed at the Globe written by a Plagiarist, titled
“No Innocent Bystanders” subtitled, “Cudda, wudda, shudda”
Act IV, Scene 5
Halliburton: Listen up you chincy worm, sure you’ve paid us billions, but we’re not going to pump a no win cement job we told you is sure to fail. I said Fail, did you hear that?
BP Chincy Worm: What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how
infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and
admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like
a god!
Halliburton: Huh? Anyway, we will do this for you instead, almost as cheap, first we’ll pump down sand to plug off the open hole on bottom to make sure the cement can’t go south, then since foamed has zero chance without more centralizers we’ll change the slurry to Halli-MiracleSuperDuper-X, but you’ve got to circulate 1.5 times or more before we pump it.
BP Chincy Worm: [I]To be, or not to be, that is the question:[/I]
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.
Halliburton: Are you listening? And we’ll run a couple of DV tools so the long string will get tied in at the 9-5/8” changeover and above instead of directly communicating with the wellhead seal you never locked.
BP Chincy Worm: [I]Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,[/I]
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.
Halliburton: Whatever, boss, but listen, this cement has to set for 36 hours minimum, got it? Hell, you could do some maintenance on the BOP and repair the gas sensors while you’re waiting. And finally, in this well a CBL is mandatory.
BP Chincy Worm: Thou doth protest too much, methinks.
(orders the original chincy worm cement job pumped, the next day the rig explodes)
BP Chincy Worm (now alone): To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
T.O. enters, pale looking, weeping
BP Chincy Worm: What have you, my good friends, deserv’d at the hands of
Fortune, that she sends you to prison hither?
T.O.: Prison, my lord?
BP Chincy Worm: GoM’s a prison.
T.O.: Then is the world one.
BP Chincy Worm: A goodly one, in which there are many confines, wards, and
dungeons, GoM being one o’ th’ worst.
T.O.: We think not so, my lord.
BP Chincy Worm: Why then 'tis none to you; for there is nothing either good or
bad, but thinking makes it so. To me it is a prison.