’Tis but thy name that is my enemy; Thou art thyself though, not a Montague. What’s Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot, Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part Belonging to a man. O! be some other name: What’s in a name? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet; So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d, Retain that dear perfection which he owes Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name; And for that name, which is no part of thee,
Sing it, fair Juliet. Tis not the name that makes the man, nor the podcast. For what’s Poop Epiphany? Were it to take another name, would it not still be the irreverent musings of two hopeful sell-outs espousing their wordy wares? Would it not still be a modest beacon of creativity and curiosity? Of thoughtful dialogue coupled with nonsensical banter? Would it not still serve the insular rhetorical purpose of catering to the narrow audience of the two narcissists producing the thing? By any other name, it would retain its sweetness for those who see manna in it, and for those who don’t, the taste will never please.
So what’s in a name? Let us agree it is whatever you decide to put in it, and so if the name doth not satisfy, perhaps the blame should be shared.