Friday, September 05, 2008

Post script

Just to open the window on what happened yesterday…


A few days ago some waste of flesh who lives in his grandmother’s basement and has no real life decided to be an arrogant prick and share with us how miserable a person he actually is.  I believe his first few cowardly anonymous posts (and my rhetorical pointing and laughing at his idiocy) are still around from a few days ago.


A couple of days ago he came back with his thinly veiled racism and, once again I called him out for being a coward and, at the very least, a repugnant race baiter or worse, a flat out racist pig.  But certainly a miserable coward.


That precipitated a demonstration of just how much free time he had.


I came home to the flaming list of 70 or so comments (some idiotic, some vile, some threatening, some vulgar, all pointless).  The list was still growing and the sad little demonstration even made me chuckle a little bet, yet it only took me 3 minutes to open my dashboard, flip the moderation switch, require SOME kind of ID for making posts so that little cowardly wastes of flesh can’t hide behind their anonymity, delete the post (and flaming list of comments), repost the content, and close up shop.


Done and done.


Game, set, match.


It took him 20 or 30 minutes to be a pathetic waste of time…  it took me 3 minutes to undo it.


One of his taunts:  you’re going to regret this.


No, no I’m not.  “Anonymous”, you are a waste of time and  you are gone.  I can “check all” and reject your comments or just ignore them and let them languish in a digital purgatory, easy peasy, 2 seconds.  Meanwhile, he’ll be attempting his little trolly flame tactics for some time to come until his grandmother makes him start paying rent and he has to go off and get gainful employment and my traffic goes up, the profile gets higher, and my sorry little corner of net-estate suddenly becomes a marketable commodity on the back of his trolly little tactics and the twos and twos of his trolly little friends. 


His time consumed, my time untouched, and the traffic numbers suddenly look like I might be able to sell adspace (though not likely worth the effort, I’m not fooling myself).  Game.  Set.  Match.  I winner laughing all the way to the bank.  You loser living in grandmother’s basement.


Meanwhile, he’ll still hide behind his veil of anonymity and not offer himself up to reciprocity…  though I’m far, far more classy than to do such a thing or waste my own time on such a pathetic, small, cowardly little waste of time.


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