The internet is a strange place. Netizens have this crazy idea that it’s possible to make friends or enemies with…electrons. They can’t. You actually have to personally know someone for that individual to be a friend or an enemy. That individual you have never met, the drunk driver who t-boned your neighbor’s minivan on the way to school and put your daughter in the hospital? A total stranger. You have no idea who that person is. That person is no more your friend or enemy than my toaster is your friend or enemy. The government bureaucrat at the NIH who spends most of his days posting on satellite radio fan forums and the rest spanking his weasel in the men’s room? He’s probably a great guy! You’d never know it from his behavior but it might be true. The Internet is a series of tubes. We are tubes shouting into other tubes. Some of us like our tubes dirtier than others. Some of us like putting things in tubes that are marked “EXIT ONLY.” Some of us even pick up the things that come out of those EXIT ONLY tubes and roll them into little balls and sniff them. And take video. We do things in those tubes that we would never think of doing if we thought we could actually get caught – things like smearing mayonnaise on our naughty parts for the dogs while our wives are at the store. That is why most Internet users hide their identities. If you are a regular user of the Net, you know what I mean.
This book is a very, very fictionalized version of events that probably didn’t happen, as far as you know. You can’t know what’s true and what’s not. But you can compare it to a bunch of blog posts that I stole, and that I can’t prove I wrote. It’s just a book that nobody’s going to buy, a transparent attempt to lure an anonymous total stranger (who can’t be a friend or an enemy because I don’t even know him, remember?) out into the open so I can sue him for butthurt that is really all my own fault anyway. It’s just letters on a page – or screen, as the case may be. Sometimes, because of my awesome GS13 writer/editor skills, they even make real words, and sometimes those words form coherent sentences, but that’s just a little much to ask of a GS13, don’t you think? In any case, no matter how incoherent they are, they’re mine. I own them. Although I remain Anonymous, this book and every word in it is registered as my property at the US Copyright Office in Washington, DC. If you think that copyright is enforceable, well the joke’s on you, isn’t it? If you think it’s worth the effort it would take to flip a coin to decide whether Bunny Boy or The Poodle owns the fraudulent copyright, well the joke’s on you, isn’t it? If you even care? What kind of useless life do you live? Are you stuck alone in a senior home, unable to move around without a rolly-walker, with no one to fix your hotdogs with mayonnaise for you? Do you only have total strangers on the internet to talk to? They aren’t your friends, you know. They just wind you up and watch you bounce off the walls and laugh at you. If you can identify me by the words herein, then you are able to draw breath and rub two brain cells together. Congratulations. Anyone who claims to have written these words in the same order as these words appear is a liar. But not as good a liar as me. Know how you can tell? Who owns the copyright. Me. That’s who. So come and get me, ya big zombie dope.
I believe my presence on the Internet is more responsible for the overall decline in civility than any other nutshuffling human penis in our nature’s history. Is this how I really am? Yes. You’ve never met me, never even seen me in person unless you’ve been to court to watch me get my ass repeatedly kicked. But I really do pee out of the top of my head. Now you understand why I wear that stupid hat and blacked out the photo on the cover. It’s not how I want to be perceived, so I prefer the anonymity of the internet, where no one knows I’m a penis. And an old, wrinkly, useless penis at that, not strong, vibrant, sexy, powerful. If we could see the person behind the avatar, what would we see? Matt, the chubby scribe clad in the furry bunny suit with ears so soft you just want to rip them off and make slippers out of them? Or Wee Willie, the dumpy wannabe musician who works in a fish cannery to support his possibly devoted mail-order bride until he gets home so he can pretend to be some kind of Internet tough guy for people he will never know and who will never know him.
For over a year, I pretended to be someone I sort of wasn’t. I saw a chance to make a little bit of pocket change by pitting people against me. I didn’t victimize anyone. The person I pitted a large group of conservative Net users against was myself. I created a right wing zombie character, a real asshole, used that character to vilify my true progressive, hyper-obsessed, cyberharrassing, turdrolling Oedipal, Cub Scout raping anal fetishist moonbat identity, an even BIGGER asshole if you can imagine, and got lots more cash donations in the process than I ever have for pontificating to the unenlightened at places like Daily Kos.
I thought I was trying another ill-considered, idiotic ploy to gain sympathy and paint myself as a victim and making a little bit of money in the process. What I ended up doing was proving how transparent my efforts on the internet really are, how painfully stupid I really am, and that I have no ability to control my bowels or the impulse to describe what happens when I have an accident.
If you knew someone down the street, and that person’s spouse was dying, and he camped out on your lawn with a loudspeaker and proclaimed to the entire neighborhood how his wife was dying, and reported on how her delirium was progressing, and how she was looking for ice cream that wasn’t there, and that she was having death rattles, and he was crying out “WHY AREN’T YOU ASSHOLES DONNING SACKCLOTH AND ASHES AND PITYING ME AND TUNING IN TO MY PODCAST AND GIVING ME MONEY???” and after she died he continued to give the passersby a running account of the arrival of the medical personnel who declared her dead and zipped her into a body bag and took her out to the hearse and drove her away and all manner of other morbid and embarrassing facts that you wouldn’t want to read about under any circumstances but are especially gruesome as an obvious play for pity, would you tell that person to shut the fuck up?
Of course you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t have to. Because nobody is so terminally stupid as to overshare to such an obscene degree, right? At least not while signing their own name to it. Nobody could so lack the self-awareness to understand just how wrong that is, right? Not without a reservoir of stupidity heretofore unimaginable.
People like that need a little push. Off the roof of a tall building.
I know. I started to understand that I actually WAS the monster I created. I got out and went back to being the moonbat monster that I’ve always been. And now, for the first time, I’m telling you how I did it in the hopes that you will be stupid enough to plunk down a tenner to help me pay for a mobility scooter and a grandfather clock and a poster of some Cub Scouts and a big petrified turd encased in Lucite for my Man Cave.
And remember, there’s a very real possibility that person you are having a flame war with on Twitter is a decent human being.
Unless it’s me.
I make Charlie Manson and Deb Frisch look like Mike and Carol Brady.