Sunday, April 24, 2005

Opponents of the ULA

A Series of Profiles

#1: The Anonymous Internet Geek.

Cowardly person posting hate nonsense reflections of the geeky insanity of his decayed brain. Chained to the computer screen mentally dead consumer slave of military-industrial technology. He doesn't use the computer-- it uses him; a conduit for incoherent machine babble-ology.

The grammar-school style postings of this idiot are admissions of defeat, signs of ULA victory. The person can't contend with us publicly in a free exchange of rhetoric and ideas. He'd get blown away, would vanish in an instant as if carried away by a tornado. So he hides, abjectly.

The posts are of such a childish level-- a few simple-minded sentences expressing the primitive neo-Nazi racism of a twelve year-old, that it's difficult to do much other than feel sorry for the person. Or laugh at him. Maybe it IS a twelve year-old-- the hysteria over ULA women writers an indication.

Hiding in a room of nursery rhymes, wearing kid-pajamas with stockinged-feet-- with pink and blue bunny illustrations-- holding Teddy and sucking thumb between pecks on the keyboard, this person, despite the hate, is undoubtedly attracted to the ULA. The person's dirty little secret is that he wants to be one of us; to join our team of larger-than-life personalities. Inside himself he knows he doesn't qualify. His resentment at this realization pours across the screen. Never having progressed beyond the maturity of an adolescent; a complete manifestation of narcissistic ego combined with the self-defeating grab-bag tricks of Machiavelli; he would be misplaced on a team of assertive equals. So he stays secure and isolated in his pink-painted room among his envious imaginings and nursery rhymes while forever stupidly tapping away on his keyboard.

1 comment:

Sebastian Morningwood said...

Yeah, punk, keep talking. The whole world is going to find out about how the ULA tried to destroy the greatest piece of literature ever composed on toilet paper in his own blood by a retarded alcoholic who suffered a head injury when Martha Stewart attacked him.

I mean, of course, "The Heat of My Pockets" by Orlando Hotpockets.

You fools think that just because the New York Times calls you a bunch of outsiders, you get to lie about a brilliant writer like Orlando Hotpockets and even pretend like Wenclas didn't steal whole passages from the manuscript.

The real underground knows the score.