Words on an Electronic Canvas…
Having recently read several nasty-grams directed at my readership and other hapless individuals from a certain flamer whose name I no longer wish to utter as it leaves a foul and noxious taste in my mouth, I am reminded of a brilliant, often-imitated retort aimed at another similar fool with too little knowledge, no common sense, and a big mouth.
I am humbled by the poetry and the mental imagery of the original, remarkable pennings of Felix Sebastian Gallo on November 7, 1996 to a Mr. Steve Lamb. It is edited in order to be more relevant to recent events, includes a few additional colorful epithets compiled by Guy Macon, and, admittedly, some of it is my own. I leave it to you to sort it out:
The shuddering starts. We suspected this from you, and yet, something in our hearts cried out to be merciful. But mercy runs screaming. Sense follows soon thereafter. And our worst fears are realized. Our hearts harden.
This crime is unforgivable.
You are inexperienced. You are a bleating foal, a curdled staggering mutant dwarf smeared richly with the effluvia and offal accompanying your birth into this world. An insensate, blinking calf, meaningful to no-one, abandoned by the puke-drooling, giggling beasts who sired you and then withdrew to the sun-deprived depths of the Earth in self-aware fear of what they had done.
I will never recover from the embarrassment of belonging to the same species as you. You are a canker, an open wound in society, the dregs of this earth. You are the source of vast unpleasantness, spreading misery and sorrow wherever you go. May you choke on the queasy, convulsing nausea that is your dank and filthy soul.
You are a snail-skulled little rabbit. Would that a hawk pick you up, drive its beak into your little rabbit brain, and, upon finding it rancid, set you loose to fly briefly before spattering the ocean rocks with the frothy pink shame of your ignoble blood. And what meaning do you expect your delusionally self-important statements of unknowing, inexperienced opinion to have? What fantasy do you hold that you would believe that your tiny-fisted tantrum would have more weight than that of a leprous desert rat, spinning rabidly in a circle, waiting for the bite of the snake?
You know nothing. You are so clueless that if we stripped you naked, soaked you in clue musk, and dropped you into a field full of horny clues, you still would not have a clue. You’re unreservedly pathetic, starved for attention, and lost in a land that reality forgot. Welcome to the Internet, pustulent little creature. On second thought, you are NOT welcome. It is FULL. Go AWAY.
You see, it’s possible to paint descriptive images and draft eloquent prose without resorting to perverse, filthy language. It takes far too much intelligence than the average flamer possesses to produce witty, pithy and cunning responses, which limits their creative abilities to vulgarities and obscenities, veiled or blatant threats, and pathetic lies.
Think Cyrano.
Vicomte de Valvert: “That nose of yours is big.”
Cyrano: “Yes. I’ve often said so myself.”
VdV: “VERY big!”
C: “Is that the best you can do? A fatuous smirk? Nothing more? Come, sir, there are fifty score variety of insults you could find. The lyrical, satirical, commercial, controversial and quite frequently the kind.”
VdV: “Kind?”
C: “If you possessed the minimum amount of mind.”
Whereupon Cyrano deftly cuts de Valvert to shreds without once unscabbarding his steel.