Writing

C:\POSTARTICLE.EXE

           Article Posting Engine 2.97.827 build 132875423 alpha 47
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Enter article type. Enter ? for list.
> rant

Loading rant module... done.

Enter rant type.  Enter ? for list.
> sarcastic

Initializing sarcasm plugin... done.

Select sarcasm level.  Enter ? for list.
> billionty

WARNING! Setting 'billionty' is highly unstable!  Continue?
> yes

Enter subject matter, 'FUCK' terminates:
> Clinton
> Bush
> dynasty
> hades
> handbasket
> FUCK

Generating tokenizer... done.
Building complaint matrix... done.
Tapping hypothetical entropy dimension... done.

List content sources in order of importance, 'FUCK' terminates:
> internets
> FUCK

Source 'internets' requires a parameter.  How many 'internets' ?
> 17

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In 1981, Ronald Regan became the 40th president of the United States. His Vice President George H.W. Bush–who like all proper aristocracy named his son after himself, later inspiring George Forman to follow suit with all of his sons–discovered the greatest truth in all recorded history: Americans are incredibly stupid. With this knowledge in hand, he desperately sought to curtail America’s slide into debauchery, yet no answers to this most-terrifying of prospects presented itself. Poor George Sr. cried himself to sleep in his Scrooge McDuck-like money-bin for twelve long years as Vice President and President, shuddering in abject horror that he’d prove unable to stop the madness.

And there are those that vanish,
beneath the sundered skies.
Who prey upon the witless,
with malice in their eyes.

Sit smoking in the landscape,
a rolling wake of rage.
Tumultuous with a sickness.
beyond mere turn of age.

This rhyming lilt of marching,
doth shake the pebbled earth.
Resplendent in the darkness,
erasing his own birth.

Bob: Wow, I was beginning to think you’d fallen off teh intarwebs.

Shaun: Droll.

Bob: Well, I certainly thought so. What, nothing to say for the last over a month?

Shaun: …

Bob: I’ll take that as a no.

Shaun: Do you think this is healthy?

There are things of dark,
and things within the sky.
There are folds of woe,
and wroth of shallow eye.

There are prophets that sit upon words haughty or stripped of fear. And sit they must, digesting solemn mixes of faithless harrow. They tire of life, promised full of meaning and limitless wonder. They are broken, the wanderers, lit like frozen candles flickering in the infinite chaos, striving weakly to scale and scrabble brittle scaffolds of reason.

“Fidalius,” began Kartaena, sadly, “the Human Condition has an infinite capacity for suffering. A man’s ability to torture himself pales the gamut of physical or emotional pain another could mete. History is written on the backs of men and women who ignore this at their peril, societies lost to antiquity, flush with philosophers or kings suffused with their own righteous insights. Even great empires that once spanned the world and ushered a new era of inspired debate and progress lay as dust, forgotten by all.”