While painting my kitchen nonstop in high heat since Sunday and not having brushed my teeth for 2 days–because I was on a roll–I fell into a heat-induced trance, where I washed my brushes in the cat litter and I swear I saw a velociraptor running through my backyard. Then a voice came to me.
“Listen, blogger, what I have to say. These words are true and just. Write them down and post them. The end is near.
Behold, I am he who speaks, the one who will open his mouth and sound speech will come forth, concerning this blog and those who comment on it.
I have read this blog, and although sometimes the Author seems a little full of himself and a little too cute for my tastes now and then, nevertheless the Author has shown wisdom and great insight by allowing almost anyone to comment almost anything, and by exercising light maintenance of comments by utilizing the “moderate comments” function provided by WordPress (may its name be blessed).
I have also read the comments to this blog. Listen, commenters. Hear my words and meditate upon them.
I know your works, your enthusiasm, and your persistence. I know some of you simply can’t wait to post your next comment, and I have seen how you endure patiently as you wait for the Author to remember he has “moderate comments” turned on so he can let your comment pass. Your reward will be great.
But I have this against you.
Some of you do not realize “moderate comments” is turned on, and you send very nasty not-at-all nice emails to the Author asking him what the deal is, and why he is so afraid to let your comment pass, and what is he trying to hide, and has he stopped torturing small animals.
Be patient, know that my servant the Author has a life and will get around to it, usually within a few hours. Do not panic and resend the comment several times, thinking perhaps the Internet is broken. Such worrying with not add a single hour to your lifespan–and it will annoy the Author.
Do not resend, as if the Internet will cease to exist and the world will be dumber without your comment. It will appear. Wait for it. It will surely come.
Others of you shalt not pass moderation, neither now nor in the age to come. Because you are crazy. Flat out, cat lady crazy.
You wander around the Internet, which I have created for your enjoyment for posting “can I haz cheezburger plz?” kitty memes, baby goats wearing pajamas, and those really funny variations on that Princess Bride line, “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.” Hilarious.
Instead you abuse my gift and mock my kindness. You think the Internet is a playground for your mischief. You glory in seeking discord, even thinking you are serving me with by being mean. But you are only acting out scenes from your dysfunctional childhood or painful church experience.
The annoyance you cause is great, more so than those who say you don’t really love Jesus unless you repost something, more than those who think Twitter is the right place for nuanced debates, more than those who keep sending you invitations to play FarmVille. More even than popup ads for Viagra or Christian Mingle.
You bring to the discussion no worthy content or interesting question, only your injured souls. Your heart is an empty pit. Many call you “troll.” I call you “Famine” and “Death.” Your end is just.
The Author will not allow your comments to pass; indeed he will block you–though maybe…MAYBE…he will take a chance and let one comment pass incase you are just the occasionally crazy type and you may perchance see your craziness once others point it out to you and repent.
But if your true and evil craziness is verified, you will be blocked faster that Chris Christie’s arteries, faster than a gas station toilet. Even faster than the Schyullkill Expressway at seriously pretty much any time of day or night. (You’re better off taking 476 then heading into Philly from the south via 95, but watch the shore traffic.)
Those with ears to hear, let them hear what I have instructed the Author to do. These words are trustworthy and true.”
Then I was alone, with still half the kitchen to go. How long, O Lord. Come quickly.
