slyc_willie
Captain Crash
- Joined
- Sep 4, 2006
- Posts
- 17,732
We're being attacked by trolls. Legions of swarthy, odiferous maladroits who think 'deodorant' is a French pastry. I can tell. And they're being sneaky about it, too. About once every half-day or so, they renew their relentless and ultimately ineffective assault.
Did they think we wouldn't notice?
Of course it's not just me. The trolls are hitting all the Top Lists, and picking on the contest submissions in particular. Praise for others draws them like an addict to the needle, reminding them of what is lacking in their life.
Oh, what a sad and sorry life a troll leads. Getting up in the middle of the night, trying not to wake up Mommy downstairs as he prowls about his attic 'apartment.' Scratching away the flakes of potato chip crumbs from the three-day growth on his frog-like face, musing about why he can't find a job.
Using the bathroom, unable to see his penis beneath the protruding beer gut, but not flushing because that would surely wake up the others in the house (and make Mommy and Daddy wonder, yet again, why their 32-year-old son is still living at home).
And then he gets online, easing into a protesting chair held together by too much duct tape and wrapped-around coat hangers. Grunting as flatulence bursts from between flabby cheeks and wondering what he ate that makes it smell so bad.
Gleefully, he rubs his hands in anticipation of the 'attack.' "Oh, dis one's gettin' lotsa high votes," he thinks. He reads. Barely. "Huh? What's a 'labia?' Fuckin' writers. It's a cunt, ya dickhead. Why can't'cha just say, 'he's fuckin' her cunt?' I kin unnerstand dat."
Bomb.
"Whats wit all dis shit? Black guys wit white girls, husbands cheatin' on wives. Dat's wrong."
Bomb.
"Dese wriers think they's so smart, so fuckin' creative. Why's they gotta tell me what a pussy looks like? I done downloaded 'nuff porn, i know what it looks like . . ."
Bomb.
"Like dis stuff really turns peoples on an' shit . . ."
A stubby hand works beneath a hairy, flabby belly, prompting navel lint to tumble out. The troll shakes and grunts and realizes he's just had an orgasm. Guilt stemming from oppressive religion, a taskmaster mother, that episode with the family dog, and a complete lack of social life turns his eyes red with jealous hate.
"Fuck you! Fuck you all! I wish I could write like dat! I wish I had some value as a hoomin bein'!"
Bomb! Bomb! Bomb!
Sobbing ensues. Oh, the pathetic life of a troll.
"Fuckin' pervs," he sulks. "Writin' dis junk. I'm above dis. I'm better'n dey is. I don't need more'n a fifth-grade edjamacashun to know dat."
Grumble grumble grumble . . . .
"I'm gonna sneak Mom's car and go hit Taco Bell. Mmm . . . processed cheese . . . mmm . . . ."
And so it goes, the neverending attack, the acts of pathetic revenge against those who remind them of the pleasures they will never enjoy. The cycle of self-hate and jealousy toward those with a creative mind they cannot fathom.
And the most pathetic aspect of all . . . it never makes a difference what they do.
----
Late night. Libido's on the fritz. Had to write something. Just thought I'd share it with you.
Did they think we wouldn't notice?
Of course it's not just me. The trolls are hitting all the Top Lists, and picking on the contest submissions in particular. Praise for others draws them like an addict to the needle, reminding them of what is lacking in their life.
Oh, what a sad and sorry life a troll leads. Getting up in the middle of the night, trying not to wake up Mommy downstairs as he prowls about his attic 'apartment.' Scratching away the flakes of potato chip crumbs from the three-day growth on his frog-like face, musing about why he can't find a job.
Using the bathroom, unable to see his penis beneath the protruding beer gut, but not flushing because that would surely wake up the others in the house (and make Mommy and Daddy wonder, yet again, why their 32-year-old son is still living at home).
And then he gets online, easing into a protesting chair held together by too much duct tape and wrapped-around coat hangers. Grunting as flatulence bursts from between flabby cheeks and wondering what he ate that makes it smell so bad.
Gleefully, he rubs his hands in anticipation of the 'attack.' "Oh, dis one's gettin' lotsa high votes," he thinks. He reads. Barely. "Huh? What's a 'labia?' Fuckin' writers. It's a cunt, ya dickhead. Why can't'cha just say, 'he's fuckin' her cunt?' I kin unnerstand dat."
Bomb.
"Whats wit all dis shit? Black guys wit white girls, husbands cheatin' on wives. Dat's wrong."
Bomb.
"Dese wriers think they's so smart, so fuckin' creative. Why's they gotta tell me what a pussy looks like? I done downloaded 'nuff porn, i know what it looks like . . ."
Bomb.
"Like dis stuff really turns peoples on an' shit . . ."
A stubby hand works beneath a hairy, flabby belly, prompting navel lint to tumble out. The troll shakes and grunts and realizes he's just had an orgasm. Guilt stemming from oppressive religion, a taskmaster mother, that episode with the family dog, and a complete lack of social life turns his eyes red with jealous hate.
"Fuck you! Fuck you all! I wish I could write like dat! I wish I had some value as a hoomin bein'!"
Bomb! Bomb! Bomb!
Sobbing ensues. Oh, the pathetic life of a troll.
"Fuckin' pervs," he sulks. "Writin' dis junk. I'm above dis. I'm better'n dey is. I don't need more'n a fifth-grade edjamacashun to know dat."
Grumble grumble grumble . . . .
"I'm gonna sneak Mom's car and go hit Taco Bell. Mmm . . . processed cheese . . . mmm . . . ."
And so it goes, the neverending attack, the acts of pathetic revenge against those who remind them of the pleasures they will never enjoy. The cycle of self-hate and jealousy toward those with a creative mind they cannot fathom.
And the most pathetic aspect of all . . . it never makes a difference what they do.
----
Late night. Libido's on the fritz. Had to write something. Just thought I'd share it with you.
