This action might not be possible to undo. Are you sure you want to continue?
and other works of
Build Your Own Boat
Writings and Adaptations for the Something Awful thread dedicated to TVTropes and its users “Tropers”
“I put more effort and creativity into that than the entirety of [TVTropes forum] Writer's Block.” Build Your Own Boat
Support a Charity (MOD CHALLENGE: DONATE OR FEEL LIKE A TROPER)
This work (“Work”) is licensed under a Creative Commons AttributionNonCommercial-ShareAlike license. That means you‟re free to share and distribute the Work however you like. You are also free to remix and adapt the Work. We only ask that you attribute the book to us properly, that the Work will not be used for commercial purposes, and any derivative work you‟ve created based on this Work is distributed under this or a similar license. For more information, you may consult http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/. If you enjoy this Work, we ask that you consider donating to a charity, a list which we have included at the end of this introductory chapter. We urge that you not to act like Blixty Slycat, a proud TVtropes troper,1 as seen in the exchange below in respect of Women For Women International, a charity supporting female survivors of war:
We have since been informed that Blixty Slycat is no longer a TVTropes troper, as in January 2012 he declared he was quitting TVTropes, and Fast Eddie obliged by banning him. This fact does not discount that Blixty Slycat’s statement as reprdocued in this Work is wholly representative of TVTropes’s culture.
We also ask for you not to believe in Fast Eddie (Owner of TVTropes), who has attempted to silence Something Awful‟s charitable contributions by deleting the following from the Something Awful article on TVTropes:
This list of charities is not meant to be exhaustive and only as suggestions. You are encouraged to support a charity of your own choice:
Women for Women o https://give.womenforwomen.org/sponsorship/index.htm?wfw=EnRedir Matènwa Community Learning Center o http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3453251 o https://app.etapestry.com/hosted/BeyondBorders/OnlineDonation.html Red Cross o http://www.redcross.org/donate/donate.html Books Aloud o http://www.booksaloud.org/ Point Foundation: The National LGBT Scholarship Fund o http://www.pointfoundation.org/ Astraea Lesbian Foundation for Justice o http://www.astraeafoundation.org/ Albert Kennedy Foundation o http://www.akt.org.uk/ Stonewall o http://www.stonewall.org.uk/ Herorat: Detection Rats Technology o http://herorat.org/ Aasha Foundation: Hope for Girls o http://aashafoundation.org/ RAINN o http://www.rainn.org/ Rape Crisis o http://www.rapecrisis.org.uk/ Nanowrimo Young Writer Programme o http://ywp.nanowrimo.org
Thank you. We hope you enjoy this Work as much as we do creating it.
At its very core, TVTropes is meant to be a community for analysing the themes and motifs prevalent in fictions of various mediums, including the literary. Unfortunately for various reasons, the userbase of TVTropes, called “tropers”, have demonstrated itself perfectly as almost everything wrong about the current nerd subculture. The community now devotes 80% of its energy analysing common elements in Anime, and such elements include something as mundane as “Hula and Luaus” or as questionable as “Buxom is Better”. Strangely enough, for a community of media analysis, criticism is strongly discouraged, and site owner Fast Eddie himself has personally voiced out against critics of every medium. This attitude has caused a trickle-down effect, resulting in moderators actively removing members accused of criticising others‟ opinions or creations, and members being hurt and confused when non-tropers (both in real life and online) do not find them or their attitude anything but deplorable. Something Awful, one of these non-tropers, has had three semi-successful threads on the special qualities of tropers and the TVTropes community. In between making fun of their terrible opinions (“Most of us don‟t watch [terrible paedophilia Anime] for the [underage porn]”) or horrible writings (“She could still feel a very large amount of fluid sloshing around inside her”), Something Awful goon Build Your Own Boat has developed his unique style of adapting old works to mock tropers. Amazingly, his works have gone down well amongst tropers, many who have come to enjoy his largest work, “A Christmas Carol” and provide praise and admiration in their own forums. TVTropes‟s own moderators have expressed confusion as to the popularity of Build Your Own Boat‟s works, and grudgingly accepted discussion on the TVTropes forums. As of now, the thread discussing Build Your Own Boat‟s works have been quiet, and has not been shut down. This Work intends to compile the works of Build Your Own Boat‟s work in the Something Awful thread, and we hope you enjoy it as much as the tropers (but not their moderators). The Saddest Rhino 27/01/12
One day, when drudging through the horrors of TVTropes I decide to wax poetic. People thought it was funny. Thinking these up, planning them out, and writing them up has become something of a hobby for me. Maybe not the healthiest, but what are you going to do? Perhaps I should explain exactly why that is. The obvious reason, is I wrote these... things... to be funny. But the main reason is that I hate TVTropes. That is important. Tropers have speculated that goons mock for sport, or just because we like being mean, or to be funny. That‟s true. But first, and foremost, I really hate TVTropes. But I feel that I should elaborate. Sure, tropers can be (and in my experience usually are) horrible people, but that isn‟t any reason to single them out. After all, bigotry, privilege, and persecution complexes are par for the course when it comes to nerds. Then why do we single out tropers in particular? In reality, my problem is with TVTropes, not tropers. As an entity, I find it offensive. Ultimately, my hatred of TVTropes is born from my love of art. See, while TVTropes may put on airs and claim that they are “celebrating” art and media, in truth it is diametrically opposed to art. What TVTropes is ultimately trying to do is to create a catalog of what goes into the making of fiction. "Trope" in the tropespeak sense, is not just what you and I call a trope. Anything that happens, makes up a plot is a trope. Any aspect of a character's appearance, personality or concept is a trope. Anything that relates to the conception, creation or structure of a work is a trope. Everything to do with purpose, meaning or theme of a work is a trope. Mediums, style and genre are tropes. Everything is a trope. People have compared it to the Periodic Table, and that's really what it‟s like. They are trying to build a Periodic Table for art. Tropes are to art as atoms are to matter. But art isn't finite. You can‟t just plug and play, and hope for the best. What they are describing are not devices in writing, they are arbitrary observations made by people who know nothing about art. As a fellow goon said, they are like the Collectors from Mass Effect, brutally collecting all art, and grinding it down into a gray paste. They are trying to take the soul from art. How can I feel anything but disdain for someone that does that? So with that bit of unfunny out of the way, here is my labor of hatred—pure unadulterated hatred. Build Your Own Boat 01/28/12
Table of Contents
Support a Charity (MOD CHALLENGE: DONATE OR FEEL LIKE A TROPER) ........................................... 3 Foreword .......................................................................................................................................... 6 Revelation of Build Your Own Boat .................................................................................................................................. 1 Don Troper .................................................................................................................................................................................... 2 Moby Goon..................................................................................................................................................................................... 4 Troper De Internet .................................................................................................................................................................... 8 Kira Anjirus ................................................................................................................................................................................ 10 Joss Whe-Don ............................................................................................................................................................................ 13 To Kill a Miscegenator .......................................................................................................................................................... 16 Hamureto-San ........................................................................................................................................................................... 24 Act I ........................................................................................................................................................................................... 24 Act III ........................................................................................................................................................................................ 30 Act V .......................................................................................................................................................................................... 33 A Christmas Carol ................................................................................................................................................................... 37 Chapter 1: Troper Tales' Ghost ................................................................................................................................... 37 Chapter 2: The First of the Three Spirits................................................................................................................ 40 Chapter 3: The Second of the Three Spirits .......................................................................................................... 45 Chapter 4: The Last of the Spirits .............................................................................................................................. 50 Chapter 5: The End of It .................................................................................................................................................. 55 I Have a Really Bad Idea ...................................................................................................................................................... 57
Revelation of Build Your Own Boat
(Original: Revelation 6:1)
And I saw when the Lamb opened one of the seals, and I heard, as it were the noise of thunder, one of the four beasts saying, “Come and see.” And I saw, and behold! a purple unicorn-pony: and he that sat on her had a pen; and a lampshade was given unto him: and he went forth and wrote fanfiction. And when he had opened the second seal, I heard the second beast say, “Come and see.” And there went out a cowgirl-pony that was orange: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take negativity from the earth, and that they should praise one another: and there was given unto him a great ego. And when he had opened the third seal, I heard the third beast say, “Come and see.” And I beheld, and lo! A blue pegasus-pony: and he that sat on her had a table of breast-sizes. And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts say, “A measure of racism, and three measures of misogyny; and see thou hurt not our loli and our shota!” And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, “Come and see.” And I looked, and behold! a pale yellow pegasus-pony: and his name that sat on her was Deboss, and Asperger‟s followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the internet, to torment with immaturity, and with ignorance, and with asexuality, and with the poorest of taste. And when he had opened the fifth seal, I saw on the forums the usernames of them that were concerned for the future of their site and for the bullshit which it held: And they cried with a loud voice saying, “How long, O Goons, holy and true, dost thou not help and restore the good of the community that dwell upon the site?” And memberships were given unto every one of them; and it was said unto them, that they should rest yet before posting, until their fellows and their community that should be mocked and reviled, should be fulfilled. And I beheld when he had opened the sixth seal, and lo! There was a great earthquake; and the sun became as black as sackcloth, and the moon became as blood; And the trappings of culture fell unto the earth, even as a tree casteth her fruit when she is shaken of a mighty wind. And the shame rolled back as a scroll, and all morality and decency was cast down. And the kings of the earth and the great men, and the rich men, and the chief captains, and the mighty men and every bondman, and every free man, hid themselves in the caves and in the rocks of the mountains; And said to the mountains, “Fall on us, and hide us from the face of him that sitteth on the throne, and from the wrath of the Lord: “For the great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?” ~*~
(Original: Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes)
Chapter I Which Treats of the Character and Pursuits of the Famous Don Troper of the Internet On a forum on the Internet, the name of which I have no desire to call to mind, there lived one of those gentleman that keep a katana on the wall, an old Nerf gun, a pony figurine, and pillow for snogging. A diet of more fast-food than home-cooking, salad on no nights, Fritos on Saturdays, Doritos on Fridays, and a bag of Cheetos or so extra on Sundays made away with three-quarters of his parents‟ income. The rest of it went in a shirt of fine dragons, and jean-shorts and shoes that don‟t match. He had in his house a mother past forty, a sister under twenty and a buddy for the internet auctions who used to find the best deals on manga fansubs. The age of this gentleman was bordering on 25; he was of rigid habit, unwashed, unhealthy, a very late riser and a poor sportsman. They will not have his surname (for on the internet, they go by convoluted handles) although for our purposes, it is plain to call him “gamerex27.” You must know then, that the above-named gentleman whenever he was at leisure (which was all the year round) gave himself to reading pages of tropes with such ardour and avidity that he neglected the pursuit of his real-life, and even the management of his bedroom; and to such a pitch did his eagerness and infatuation go that he sold many a belonging to buy manga and video games. Many an argument did he have with the moderator of the forums (a learned man, a graduate from ITT Tech) as to who was the better character, The One Winged Angel of Nippon or The Time Lord of Britain. MisterNick89, their Lancer , however, used to say that neither of them came up to the Dark Knight of Gotham, and if there was any that could compare with him it was Don Vader, father of Luke of Tatooine. In short, he became so absorbed in his tropes that he spent his nights from sunset to sunrise, and his days from dawn to dark, poring over them; and with little sleep and much reading his brains got so dry that he lost his wits. His fancy grew full of what he read on his wiki; Tsunderes, Heroic BSOD’S, The Reason You Suck Speech and all sorts of impossible nonsense; and it so possessed his mind that the whole fabric of invention and fancy he read of was true, and to him, no history in the world had more reality to it. He used to say that Kal El of Krypton was a fine character, but that he was not to be compared to Son Goku who with one Spirit Bomb destroyed Majin Buu. He thought more of Severus Snape who killed Dumpledore, but only to save young Draco‟s soul. In short, his wits being quite gone, he hit upon the strangest notion that ever madman in this world has hit upon, and that he fancied it was right and requisite, as well as for the support of his own honour, that he should be The Big Good, roaming the world over in Impossibly Cool Clothes riding a Cool Horse; righting every kind of wrong, and exposing himself to peril and danger, from which, in the issue, he was to reap eternal renown and fame. Already the poor man-child saw himself with a Crowning Moment of Awesome at least; and so, led away by the intense enjoyment he found in these pleasant fancies, he set himself forthwith to put his scheme into execution. The first thing he did was to dust off a Badass Longcoat that had belonged to his grandfather, and had been for ages lying forgotten in a box eaten by moths and covered with stains. He scrubbed and washed, but he perceived on great defect in it, that his grandfather had not left a Nice Hat along with it. This deficiency, however, his ingenuity supplied, for he found an extra-large tweed trilby at the thrift store. He covered the holes with electric and duct tape until it looked whole. It is true, that to make it match the Badass Longcoat, he took a can of spray-paint and painted it gray. The amount of time it
too it to dry disconcerted him somewhat, and stained his brow, and to resolve that problem he set about painting only the outside, and adopted it as a Nice Hat of the most perfect construction. He next turned to inspect his sister‟s bicycle that would serve as his Cool Horse. It surpassed in his eyes the Yakkul, the Red Elk from Princess Mononoke, and the Pegasus from Clash of the Titans. Four days were spent thinking of it, because (as he said to himself) it was not right that a Cool Horse belonging to The The Big Good should be without a distinctive name. And so, after having composed, struck out, rejected, added to, unmade, and remade a multitude of names out of his fancy, he decided upon calling her “Applejack,” a name, to his thinking, lofty, sonorous, and significant of what she now was; the first and foremost of all ponies in the world. Having named his pony to his taste, he was anxious for a Meaningful Rename, and was eight days pondering until he made up his mind to call himself “Don Troper.” Recollecting, however, that The The Big Good often has more than one part to his name, resolved to add to it, and styled himself “Don Troper of the Internet,” whereby, he concluded, he described accurately his origin, and did the Internet honour by taking it as his surname. So then, his Badass Longcoat out of the box, his Nice Hat taped and painted, his Cool Horse named, and he himself confirmed, he came to the conclusion that he needed The Chick; for a The The Big Good’s Five Man Band required The Chick as a Love Interest. There was, so the story goes, in a house down the street, a good-looking Girl Next Door with whom he had been at one time in love, though, so far as is known, she never knew it. Upon her he thought fit to confer the title of Damsel in Distress. After some search for a name that should suggest a princess and great lady, he decided upon calling her “Haruhi of Nippon”—all good things coming from the East—a name, to his mind, musical, uncommon, like those he had already bestowed on himself and the things belonging to him. ~*~
(Original: Moby Dick by Herman Melville)
“D‟ye see him?” cried Fast Eddie; but the White Whale was not yet in sight. “In his infallible edit wars, follow that edit history, that‟s all. Click there; steady as thou goest, and hast been going. What a lovely Wiki again! Were it a new-made Wiki, and made for a forum to the angels, and this morning first of its being online, a fairer Wiki could not dawn upon that world. Here‟s food for thought, had Fast Eddie time to think; but Fast Eddie never thinks; he only feels, feels; that’s tingling enough for tropers! To think‟s audacity. Only mods have that right and privilege. „Tis a noble and heroic thing, the trolls! Who ever conquered them? In every fight they have the last and bitterest blow. Run tilting at them and you only feed them. Ha! A coward is the troll that strikes stark naked men, but will not stand to receive a single ban. Even Fast Eddie is a braver thing—a nobler thing than that. Would now that trolls were here, but all things that most exasperate and outrage tropers, all these things are distant, but only distant as object, not as agents. There‟s a most special, a most cunning, oh, a most malicious difference! To it! Aloft there, what‟ye see?” “Nothing, sir!” “Nothing! And noon at hand! The doubloon goes a-beggin! See the sun! Aye, aye, it must be so. I‟ve over-scrolled him. How, got the start? Aye, he‟s chasing me now; not I, him— that‟s bad; I might have known it, too. Fool! The lines—the harpoons he‟s towing. Aye, aye, I have run him by last night. About! About! Come down, all of ye, but the regular look-outs! Man the braces!” “Against the wind he now steers for the open jaw,” murmured Bobby G to himself, as he coiled the new hauled main-brace upon the rain. “God keep us, but already my bones feel damp within me, and from the inside wet my flesh. I misdoubt me that I disobey my God in obeying him!” “Stand by to sway me up!” cried Fast Eddie, advancing to the mod hat. “We should meet him soon.” “Aye, aye, Sir,” and straightaway Bobby G did Eddie‟s bidding and once more Fast Eddie read the forums. “Forehead to forehead I meet the, in this third thread, Something Awful! On deck there! Brace sharper up; crowd her into the wind‟s eye. He‟s too far off to lower yet, Mr. Bobby G. The sails shake! Thump the helmsman with the mod-stick! So, he travels fast, and I must down. Leeward! The White Whale goes that way; look to windward, then; the better if the bitterer quarter. But goodbye, forum. What‟s this? Tiny mosses in these warped threads? No such stains on Fast Eddie‟s head! There‟s the difference now between man‟s old age and matter‟s. By heaven this website has the better of my live flesh every way. I can‟t compare with it. Aye, like many more direful truth as touching thyself, O Troper Tales; but, Fast Eddie, there thy shot fell short. Goodbye, forum. We‟ll talk tomorrow, nay, tonight, when the White Whale lies down there, tied to head and tail.” He gave the word; and still gazing round him, was steadily lowered through the cloven blue air to the deck. “Madrugada!” “Sir?”
“For a third thread my soul‟s ship starts upon this voyage, Madrugada.” “Aye, haters wilt have it so.” “Some ships sail from their ports, and ever afterwards are missing, Madrugada!” “Truth, Sir: saddest truth.” “Some men die at ebb; some at low water; some at the full of the flood—and I feel now like a billow that‟s all one crested come, Madrugada. I am old—shake hands with me, mod.” Their hands met; their eyes fastened; Madrugada‟s tears the glue. “Oh, my captain! Noble heart—go not! It‟s a brave mod that weeps; how great the agony of the persuasion then!” “Lower away!” cried Fast Eddie, tossing the mod‟s arms from him. “Stand by the tropers!” In an instant the thread was pulling around close under the stern. “The critics! The critics!” cried a voice from the low cabin-window. But Fast Eddie heard nothing; for his own voice was high-lifted then; and the thread went on. Yet the voice spoke true; for scarce had he pushed from his forums when numbers of critics, posting on other forums, began to relentlessly list his shortcomings, every time he left his forums; and in this way accompanied the changes with their posts. It is a thing not uncommonly happening to freaks on the internet; the critics at times ridiculing him in that same way that decent folk chastise Nazis or Klansmen. But Fast Eddie only found critics after the White Whale‟s threads had been discovered; and whether it was that Fast Eddies‟s own idiocy that attracted them—a matter sometimes well known to affect them. However it was, haters will be haters. “Heart of wrought steel!” murmured Madrugada, gazing over the side, and following with his eyes the receding boat. “Canst thou yet ring boldly to that sight? Lowering thy keel among ravening trolls, and followed by them, open-mouthed to the chase; and this the critical third thread? Future things swim before me, as a in empty character sheets; all the past is somehow grown dim. My legs feel faint; like a diabetic who has eaten too much cake. Feel thy heart, does it still beat? Stir thyself, Madrugada! Stave off the haters! Speak aloud! Keep they keenest eye upon the boats. Mark well the Goon! The threads had not gone far when by a signal from the wiki, Fast Eddie knew that the Goon had sounded. “Drive, drive in your nails oh ye waves! To their uttermost heads drive them in! Ye but strike a thing without a lid; and no coffin and no hearse can be mine!” Suddenly the waters around them slowly swelled in broad circles; then quickly upheaved, as if sideways sliding from a berg of ice, swiftly rising to the surface. A low rumbling sound was heard; and a vast form shot obliquely from the sea. Shrouded in a thin, drooping veil of mist, it hovered for a moment in the rainbowed air; and then fell swamping back into the deep. Crushed thirty feet upwards, the waters flashed for an instant like heaps of fountains, then brokenly sank into a shower of flakes, leaving the circling surface creamed like new milk round the marble trunk of the White Whale. “Give way!” cried Fast Eddie to the tropers, and the threads went on to attack; but maddened by Rottweiler‟s fresh stupidity that was corroding in him, Something Awful
seemed combinedly possessed by all the angels that fell from heaven. The wide tiers of welded tendons overspreading his broad white forehead, beneath the transparent skin, looked knitted together; as head on, he came churning his tail among the boats; and once more flailed them apart; spilling out the tropes and fetishes from the two mates‟ threads, and dashing in one side of the upper part of their bows, but leaving Fast Eddie‟s almost without a scar. While Deboss and Chagen were stopping the strained planks; and as the Goon swimming out from them, turned and showed one entire flank as they shot by them again; at that moment a quick cry went up. Lashed round and round to the Goon‟s back; pinioned in the turns upon turns in which, during the past night, the Good reeled the involutions of the lines around him, the half torn body of Troper Tales was seen; its Badass Longcoat frayed to shreds; his Death Glare turned full upon old Fast Eddie. The harpoon dropped from his hand. “Befouled!” he drew in a long lean breath, “Aye, Troper Tales! I see thee again. Aye and thou goest before; and this, this then is the hearse that thou didst promise. But I hold thee to the last letter of they word. Where is the second hears? You are banned OP‟s! Those threads are useless now; and mention not our foes upon my site; if you do, Fast Eddie is enough to die. Down, men! The first thing that but offers to join Something Awful, I shall harpoon! Ye are not other men, but my arms and legs. Obey me! Where is the Whale?” “Oh! Fast Eddie!” cried Bobby G, “Not too late is it, even now, the third thread, to desist. See! Something Awful seeks thee not. It is thou, thou that madly seekest him!” “The helm! Take the helm; let me pass,” and so saying, two of the tropers helped him forward to the first page of the ongoing thread.. At length as the thread was cast to one side, and ran ranging along with the White Whale‟s flank, he seemed strangle oblivious of its advance—as the Goon sometimes will—and Fast Eddie was fairly within the smoky mountain mist, which, thrown off from the Goon‟s spout curled round his great hump; he was even thus close to him; high- lifted to the poise, he darted his fierce iron, and his far fiercer curse into the hated Goon. Almost simultaneously, with a mighty volition of ungraduated, instantaneous swiftness, the White Whale darted through the weltering sea. But when Fast cried out to make it so all links from the hated site would link to their own OP, and the tropers did so. But the Goon turned, and copied the link and lo! Opened it in a new window. “What breaks in me? Some sinew cracks! „Tis whole again; tropers! Bust in upon him!” Hearing the tremendous rush of the sea-crashing thread, the Goon wheeled around to present his blank forehead at bay; but in that evolution, catching sight of the nearing black hull of the Wiki; seemingly seeing in it a manifestation of all that is wrong with the internet; bethinking it---it may be—a larger and nobler foe; of a sudden, he bore down upon its advancing prow, smiting his jaws amid fiery showers of foam. Fast Eddie staggered; his hand smote his forehead. “I grow blind; hands! Stretch out before me that I may yet grope my way.” “The Goon! The Wiki!” cried the cringing tropers. “Tropers! Slope downwards to they depths, O internet, that ere it be forever too late, Fast Eddie may slide this last time upon his mark! I see; the Wiki! Dash on my men! Will ye not save my site?”
But as the tropers violently forced their boat through the sledge-hammering seas, Goonsmitten bow-ends of two planks burst through, and in an instant almost, the temporarily closed thread lay nearly level with the waves; its half-wading, splashing tropers, trying hard to stop the gap and bale out the water. From the site‟s bows nearly all the tropers now hung inactive; tropes, bits of plot, fanfiction and racism, mechanically retained on their forums, just as they had darted from their various basements; all their enchanted eyes intent upon the Goon, which from side to side strangely vibrated his predestinating head, sent a broad band of overspreading semicircular foam before him as he rushed. Retribution, swift vengeance, eternal malice were in his whole aspect, and spite of all that tropers could do, the solid white buttress of his forehead smote the Wiki‟s starboard bow, till troper and trope reeled. Through the breach, they heard the waters pour as mountain torrents down a flume. Diving beneath the settling Wiki, the Goon ran quivering along its keel; but turning under water, swiftly shot to the surface again, far off the other bow, but within a few yards of Fast Eddie‟s thread, where for a time, he lay quiescent. “I turn my body from the sun. What ho, death-glorious Wiki! Must ye then perish and without me? Am I cut off from the last fond pride of the meanest site-founding moderator? Oh, lonely death on lonely life! Oh, now I feel my topmost greatness lies in my topmost grief. Ho, ho! From all your furthest bounds, pour ye now in, ye bold billows of my whole foregone life, and top this one piled comber of my death! Towards thee I roll, thou alldestroying but unconquering Goon! To the last I grapple with thee! From hell’s heart I stab at thee! For hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee! Sink all coffins and all hearses to one common pool! And since neither can be mine, let me then tow to pieces while still chasing thee! Though tied to thee! Thou damned Goon! Thus, I give up the spear!” The harpoon was darted; the stricken Goon flew forward; with igniting velocity the line ran through the grove; ran foul. Fast Eddie stooped to clear it; he did clear it; but the flying turn caught him round the neck and voicelessly he was shot out of the boat, ere the tropers knew he was gone. And now, concentric circles seized the lone boat itself, and all its crew and each floating or, and every lance-pole, and spinning, animate and inanimate, all round and round in one vortex, carried the smallest chip of TV Tropes out of sight. Now small fowls flew screaming over the yet yawning gulf; a sullen white surf beat against its steep side; then all collapsed, and the great shroud of the sea rolled on as it rolled five thousand years ago. ~*~
Troper De Internet
(Original: Cyrano de Bergerac by Edmond Rostand)
TROPER (jiggling violently, then suddenly rising): Not there! what, seated?--no! (They spring toward him): Let no one hold me up-(He props himself against the computer desk): Only the desk! (Silence): It comes. E'en now my feet have turned to Gundanium Alloy, My hands are frozen with Carbonite! (He stands erect): But since Deletion comes, I meet him still afoot, (He draws his katana): And Katana in hand! LE LANCEUR: Troper! LA FILLE (half fainting): Troper! (All shrink back in terror.) TROPER: Why, I well believe He dares to mock my Nippon? Ho! Baka Gaijin! (He raises his Hanzo Steel): What say you? It is useless? Ay, I know But who posts ever hoping for success? I fought for lost cause, and for fruitless quest! You there, who are you!--You are thousands! Ah! I know you now, old Enemies of mine! Criticism!! (He strikes in air with his sword): Have at you! Ha! and Compromise! Haters!, Trolls!. . . (He strikes): Change, I? Grow up? No, never! You too, Folly,--you? I know that you will lay me low at last; Let be! Yet I fall fighting, fighting still! (He makes passes in the air, and stops to rest, weazing): You strip from me the animes and the moe! Take all! Despite you there is yet one thing I hold against you all, and when, to-night, I enter Fast Eddie's fair courts, and, lowly bowed, Sweep with doffed fedora the heavens' threshold blue, One thing is left, that, void of stain or smutch, I bear away despite you. (He springs forward, his sword raised; it falls from his hand; he staggers,
falls back into the arms of Le Lanceur and Cuistot d'Attelage.) La Fille (bending and kissing his forehead): 'Tis?. . . TROPER (opening his eyes, recognizing her, and smiling): My Nakama. Curtain. ~*~
(Original: The Killer Angels by Michael Shaara)
Forward November 2011 I. The Armies On September 23 the first tropers of the Army of Televison Tropes, Fast Eddy commanding, slip across the Discussion forums at Games and begin the attack on the Something Awful. It is an army of seventy thousand manchildren. They are rejects and „spergs. They are mostly ego-centric and rarely self-aware. It is an army that claims to love art, systematically destroying it. It is Anglo-Saxon and Protestant. Though there are many men who cannot read or write, they all think they are authors. They share common boner for Japan and a common tendency to plug their ears in the face of criticism and then claim victory against superior arguments. They have as solid a faith in their nonexistent talent as any nerds to ever post on the internet. They move slowly south behind the LP subforum, using Chip & Ironicus‟ Uncharted 2 LP to screen their movements. Their main objective is to draw the Goon Army out into the open where it can be destroyed. By the end of the month they are closing on Post Your Favorite, having spread annoyance, mild amusement and pedophilia across the forums. Later that day the Army of the Post Your Favorite, always quick to move, turns to begin the great pursuit which will end at Gettysburg. It is a strange new kind of army, a paying group of indecent men, fighting for decency. There are strange moderators and strange administrators and many who break their rules are punished. Nothing like this army has been seen on the internet. It is a collection of men from many different places who have seen much shitwriting and many different pedophiles. They are in the Post Your Favorite, for the guys in GBS wouldn‟t touch this trainwreck with a thirty-foot pole. They have lost faith in everything good but not in themselves. They think this will be the last battle and they are glad that it is to be fought on their own home ground. They come, eighty thousand men, up the narrow roads that converge toward the Discussion forums. The threads through which they march is some of the most interesting threads on the Forums. It is the third thread of the war. II. The Men Fast Eddy. He is ancient. Thirty in the eighties but has photos of a young redheaded man, so when he posts them he seems younger. Crazy-eyed, like all the sea-captains, whitebearded, dressed in an old blue robe and a lampshade on his head, so that he is mistaken sometimes for an elderly patient of the mental ward. A petty man, an arrogant man. He stops no “vices.” He does not stop tropers who are racist or homophobic or misogynist or chase children. He does not read novels or plays, he thinks they weaken the mind. He is a man without control. He does not hold his temper nor his faith; he always complains. He has been down that autumn with the another bout of the paranoia which will eventually kill him. He believes absolutely in himself. He loves Joss Whedon above all, the mystic „verse of Buffy. He is the laziest man in either army. He marches knowing that a letter has been prepared, a letter which offers peace. It is to be placed on the desk of Lowtax the day after Eddy has destroyed the Army of the Post Your Favorite somewhere south of FYAD.
Madrugada, Lieutenant General. Eddy‟s second in command. A large woman, larger than Eddy, beady-eyed, ominous, trash-talking, crude. They call her “Old Pete” and sometimes “the bitch with the fox avatar.” Her headquarters is always near Eddy, and tropers remark upon the intimacy and some are jealous of it. She will speak his mind. Since the exit of the other Founders, she has been Eddy‟s right hand. She is a stubborn woman. Major Tom, Brigadier General. Loud and unlovable, long-winded and full of shit. Last in his class at Boot Camp, he makes up for a lack of wisdom with a lusty exuberance. In love with war and the US military to whom he has vowed ne‟er to listen to foreigners. Got his opinions through the good offices of the Cold War, and no one now can insult Cold War thinking in Tom‟s presence, although the Cold War is over. On the march toward Gettysburg Tom‟s Eternal Conflict Division is gaining more and more tropes. He worries constantly that he will miss the last great battle of the war. Deboss, Major General. Egg-headed, joyless, hater of Shakespeare. (He also hates classics, or anything from before 1950) Calculating, cold, emotionless, he is an engineering student. But he has lost something that a soldier sometimes loses with science education. He approaches Gettysburg not understanding of thes hyoo-muh‟n emotions, in command of twenty-thousand tropers. Chagen, Brigadier General. Has risen to earn the ire of any decent human. A bipolar, homophobic, bad-tempered, immature, aspires to fuck children, frets and broods and fights with superiors. He should have been banned long ago, and eventually is, but only for posting unmarked NWS images. He does not like to follow orders. At Gettysburg he will command a corps, and he will be a sick fuck again. Bobby G, Lieutenant General. They call him a “Pretty Cool Guy,” because he is the only decent man amongst them. He has a good spirit, is known throughout the old army as the man who was lauded for thumping Shichibukai in the head with a mod stick. He is one of the first of the new moderators, the cold-eyed men who have sensed the birth of the new forum of rules, but in that courtly company few will listen. Bobby G looks forward to seeing well moderated forums, which will take place at Gettysburg. jasonwill2, Brigadier General. Commands the second of Major Tom‟s brigades. A “not racist,” Confederate sympathizing Satanist. Posted insane ramblings with no proofreading; at YouTube he has made the mistake of “explaining” himself on his personal YouTube profile. He intends to write a hundred-thousand words of shit. He broke his collar bone, therefore hindering his efforts and sparing the world, for now, of his horrible opus. He comes to Gettysburg a “determinator,” forced to live with his mother. He believes his mother is a horrible bitch. On TVTropes, there is nothing bitchier than being a nurturing mother. Rottweiler, Major General. The chinless dandy, the regressive mouth breathing misogynist who dresses like he‟s a bad Untouchables cosplayer. He has an internet girlfriend, but she knows her place. She won‟t talk out of turn, and she won‟t sully his purity with her sinful, feminine weaknesses. She hates herself. Rottweiler is a terrible debater, whose arguments are always fallacious, and a man who loves to read philosophy but not understand it. His mission that month is to stun the Goons with his style. He fails. Shichibukai, Brigadier General. Commander of one of Chagen‟s divisions. A stupid, racist, scare-mongering bigot. Banned from TVTropes and left to become a Nazi, to which he is well suited. An incompetent debater, but a man who won‟t take no for an answer, a slippery man, a careful soldier; he will not recognize his desire to keep white-people
pure and on top as “racist”. Chagen defers to him. Bobby G despises him. Eddy makes do with the material at hand. These men were goons: Mr. Pumroy, Major General. A professor of Terrible Troper Opinions, sometimes professor of “Shitwriting.” Clever, witty, easy to read, often finding horrible threads, posts often and has a great avatar. He‟s been around for a long time.. Namtab, Major General. Reads the long story “Mills College Anime Club,” piling up corpses to shield his mind from insanity. He brings the hard fragments of that horrible thing with him. He has yearned to be a goon. His wishes are to be granted in the dark cesspool of an obnoxious little site called TVTropes. Bad Bromance, Major General. A goon, restless and caged in a the tame and clear “quote”, who posts his findings unrestricted by “quoting.” A man with an eye for the terrible posts, weary of stupidity and bigotry and persecution complexes. He is always first into the forums, where he lifts up his eyes to the horrible shit. He is a man who knows the terrible posts. Francis York Patty, Major General. He has seen the results of tropers' maneuvering to fix their horrible site, and he insists that the Goons cannot let this continue on Something Awful, as that led to the second thread‟s gassing. He therefore sets out to make a new thread. Surreptitious Muffin was the original poster of the second thread, but Francis York Patty got permission from Eggplant Wizard. And thus it is Francis York Patty, not Muffin, who rides into Gettysburg on the morning of the Third Thread. The Saddest Rhino Major General. Often outraged at the horrible opinions of tropers. He posts quotes by Rottweiler and other horrible troper “philosophers.” He tries his best to post all the horrible shit that tropers believe, but there is far too much. He posts Rottweiler‟s diatribes on women, sex and race. None of them are pleasant. Build Your Own Boat Major General. Poster of long, mad-libbed literature. He has a tendency to go on long tirades and take shit too seriously, but at this moment, people aren‟t complaining. In the fight to come he will be waiting for the shitwriting to pop up at the top of Writer‟s Block. All that month there were Dodecahedrons and [ABENOTE] mermaids. Longplays are ripening over at Retsupurae, and men watch as they post. The civilians have fled and houses are dark. The armies move south through Ask/Tell and Goons with Spoons. ~*~
(Original: Gunga Din by Rudyard Kipling)
You may watch anime shite You may watch anime shite While sequestered on this site An‟ you‟ve plenty zany fantasy to see, But when we lived in the nineties An‟ we „adn‟t fan-subbed series, We got our silly sci-fi from the TV. Now on Dubya B primetime, When I still „ad some free time „fore pretending that I care about this forum. Now of all the idea men, The greatest one back then Was that creator of Buffy, named Joss Whe-don. I was “Joss…Whe-…don! What‟s the Scooby-Gang do this week, Joss Whe-don! Oh, Buffy, an‟ „er Watcher, With Willow, an‟ with Xander, All written by that clever man, Joss Whe-don!” An‟ Firefly, you know, Was an „ell o‟ a fine show, An‟ it ran for rather less that „arf a season, But that Rupert Murdock hack, Stabbed us in the back, An‟ deprived us an extra dose of Joss Whe-don. When I hop a plane and go To some town in Mexico, To escape that pointless Yankee holiday, There‟re ruins made o‟ stone, An‟ no service on my phone, How‟d the „eathen Mayans ever live this way? I was “Joss…Whe-…Don! What mischief „ave those evil networks done? You know what I need, Bring it with good speed, „Nother Doctor Horrible, Joss Whe-don!” I would wander to and fro, Getter boreder as I go, Assaulted by the sight beauty all „round. An‟ The tour‟d run us dead, An‟ you could bet your bloomin‟ head,
When we‟d stop there‟d be no wireless to be found. Wearing sandels with my socks, Starin‟ at the boring rocks, Getting‟ told they‟re really somethin‟ special, The jungle got so humid, And makes me wonder what I did, To deserve this extra boring form of hell. I was “Joss…Whe-…Don!” I won‟t take this torture sitting down. When the tour‟s moved on out, You could hear this troper shout, “Enough of ruins, I want some Joss Whe-don!” I shan‟t forget the night, When I‟m at some Mayan site, With tequila where my bloodstream should‟a‟been. Well I came across a rune, While I whistled me the tune Of a theme-song from a show made by Joss Whe-don. I lifted up my „ead, An‟ I squinted an‟ I read, An‟ it gave me quite a shock what I was done. Now I can‟t read no Mayan, But I swear that it was sayin‟ That “Us Mayans sure do love us some Joss Whe-don!” It was “Joss…Whe-…Don! „Ere‟s a ruin bein‟ blasted by the sun, Though an ancient heathen race, These Mayans had good taste, „Cause they share my bizarre love for ol‟ Joss Whe-don!” I passed out on the ground, An‟ I didn‟t hear the sound As the guides drug me to the Holiday Inn. I woke up on the bed, With a pounding in my „ead, An‟ I search the TV Guide for some Joss Whe-don. An‟ I finally got my wish, Even though it‟s dubbed in Spanish, When I stumbled on a Vampire Hunter re-run. I wish I‟d found it quicker, It‟s the one that „as John Ritter! An‟ I sit there and I soak up the Joss Whe-don!
I was “Joss…Whe-…Don! You magnificent bastard Joss Whe-don! I will bow down and fellate you, By the sky-bully that made you, You make my life worth living, Joss Whe-don! ~*~
To Kill a Miscegenator
(Original: To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee)
Tom Robinson took the oath and stepped into the witness chair. KCK very quickly induced him to tell us: Tom was an African-American man in his mid-twenties; he‟d grown up in a suburb. “So, did you date any white women?” asked KCK. “Yes sir. It doesn‟t really matter what a person is. It‟s what‟s inside that counts.” “So, were there not any Black women in your area?” Annebeeche leaned across me and asked USAF 713 what KCK was doing. USAF 713 said that KCK was a lunatic. “Were you acquainted with Mayella?” asked KCK. “Yes sir. I had to pass her house on the way to work after school.” “Tom, did she ever speak to you?” “Why, yes, we recognized each other from school, and one day she asked me to come inside the fence to help her with her homework.” As Tom Robinson gave his testimony, it came to me that Mayella must have been the loneliest person in the world. She was even lonelier than Mark Von Lewis who couldn‟t get laid, even with his uniform. When Starship Maxima asked if she had any boyfriends, she seemed to not know what he meant, then thought he was making fun of her. She was as sad, I thought, as a “white” person living in Africa. Perhaps she‟d be better off living in a ghetto, not owning a riverbank or being from a fine old family. “Tom, what happened to you on the evening of November twenty-first this year?” “Mr. KCK,” he said, “I was walking home, like I usually did after work, and when I passed Mayella on her porch. It seemed really quiet, and I didn‟t know quite why. She asked for me to help her for a moment. I asked if she was having trouble with her calculus, and she said that she needed help with her get a box down from her chiffarobe. “So I did what she asked, climbed up a chair and was reaching, when the next thing I know, she‟d grabbed me around the legs. I was scared, so I climbed off the chair.” Tom ran his hand nervously over his mouth. “Mr. KCK, I got off that chair and she sort of jumped on me.” “Then what did she do?” “She kissed me. She said that she couldn‟t find a white boyfriend, so she might as well try a black guy. She said that I shouldn‟t tell her father about it, because he had some issues. She said, “Kiss me back, Tom.” I said, Mayella, I have a girlfriend and tried to run but she got her back to the door and I would have had to push her. And a man should never place his hands on a woman. I asked her again to let me out, but just as I said it, Mr. Shichibukai started yelling through the window.” “What did he say?”
“Something that isn‟t fit to repeat.” “What did he say, Tom? You must tell the jury what he said.” Tom Robinson shut his eyes tight. “He said „You goddamn whore! Kissing a-„ an „nword.‟” “Then what happened?” “Mr. KCK, I was running so fast I don‟t know what happened.” It occurred to me that Tom Robinson‟s manners were very similar to most of the white people I know. He didn‟t want to hit a woman and he turned down a chance to cheat on his girlfriend. KCK was about to say something, but before he could Mr. My God It‟s Full of Stars rose from the audience and announced: “To be fair, it is natural for populations to "stick to their own". That's how species happen in the first place. Also, even though we are all one species, there has been enough regional variation that you could divide human populations into sub-species. All that I'm saying, really, is that if aliens came down to earth and started to classify species, they would likely split humanity up into several subspecies, based not only on obvious observational differences but also on biochemical differences (like how Europeans are lactose-tolerant, and Indians have resistance to several sub-tropical diseases). And that it is perfectly normal for subspecies to tend to mate within their own subspecies rather than pursue mates of a different subspecies.” “Shut your mouth, dumbass!” Judge Build Your Own Boat was wide awake and roaring. He was also pink in the face. His speech was miraculously unimpaired by his pure hatred. “My God It‟s Full of Stars,” he yelled, “if you have anything you want to say, too bad. You get out of this room, you hear me? Get out of this room, sir, you hear me? I‟ll be damned if I have to listen to your shit again!” Judge Build Your Own Boat told the reporter to expunge anything that idiot said. Then he said, “Go ahead, Mr. KCK.” “Had your eye on her for a long time, hadn‟t you boy?” asked KCK. “No, sir. She‟s a nice person, but we were just friends.” “You were mighty polite, always ready to lend a hand, weren‟t you boy?” “I was just trying to help.” “You had your own job and homework, didn‟t you?” “Yes sir.” “Why didn‟t you do them instead of Miss Shichibukai‟s?” “I did them in addition to Miss Shichibukai‟s.” “You must have been pretty busy. Why?”
“I don‟t follow, sir.” “Why were you so anxious to do that girl‟s chores?” Tom Robinson hesitated. “She looked like she didn‟t have anyone to help her. Her father certainly wasn‟t going to do anything.” “You did all this from sheer goodness, boy?” “Well, yes. I felt sorry for her.” “You felt sorry for her, you felt sorry for her?” KCK seemed ready to rise to the ceiling. “See, I think there was a cultural reason for your „kindness‟.” The witness didn‟t seem to follow. KCK paused a long time. “See, I think your actions, as an American black, spring from an inferiority complex.” “What?” That was as much as I heard of KCK‟ cross examination, because USAF 713 made me take Annebeeche out. For some reason Annebeeche had started bullying us and wouldn‟t stop; quietly at first, then her cruelty were heard by everyone. USAF 713 said if I didn‟t go with her he‟d make me, and Reverend Triumphant said I‟d better go, so I went. Annebeeche had always seemed to be so nice before, nothing wrong with her, but I guess that some people aren‟t as progressive as me. “Ain‟t you guilty for being so mean?” I asked, when we reached the bottom of the stairs. Annebeeche tried to maintain her composure as we ran down the south steps. My God It‟s Full of Stars was a lonely figure on the top step. “Anything happenin‟, Pink Heart Chainsaw?” He asked as we went by. “No sir,” I answered over my shoulder. “You know how some people can be.” “I just can‟t stand this,” Annebeeche said. “Who, Tom? Yeah, rich people like him generally have poor personalities and are weak, infantile and stupid.” Annebeeche exhaled patiently. “No. I‟m not talking about him. I‟m talking about the racists. It makes me sick, plain sick.” “He‟s just doing his job.” “You don‟t get it. You shouldn‟t treat a person that way. The way that man called him „boy‟ all the time and looked around at the jury all the time. And all of this because he‟s black—“ “Well, Annebeeche, he‟s white. You see if a Caucasian person is poor and lives in the ghetto, they are black, and if an African person is rich and lives in the suburbs, he‟s white. It is cultural, and not racial, I mean.” “That doesn‟t make sense.” “African-Americans tend to self-segregate because average Americans look down on
them. Even I am guilty of being racist towards black people from time to time. Even though from a realistic standpoint black people are in fact actually superior to white people. Because a black man can survive an entire life-time of hell while a white man can't do so.” “People who believe these things are terrible people. Pink Heart Chainsaw, you are a terrible person. I hate you,” said Annebeeche. “I hate him too, girl,” said a voice behind us. We thought it came from the tree-trunk, but it belonged to Mr. WeaponsGradeSadness. He peered around the trunk at us. “You aren‟t thin-hided, it just makes you sick, doesn‟t it?” ~*~
A Modest Proposal
(Original: A Modest Proposal by Jonathan Swift)
A Modest Proposal For Preventing Culture and Art From Being a Burden to Science or Humanity, and For Making Humans Beneficial to their Betters It is a melancholy object to those in this world when they see our schools and universities crowded with professors of the arts and humanities, followed by thirty, forty, or sixty students, importuning every passenger with the unscientific and worthless. These professors, instead of dedicating themselves to true and purposeful sciences, are inclined that waste our resources, espousing pointless and harmful messages to students: who go on to either become parasites on the learned and educated, or abandon all reason to become artists or critics thereby actively halting the development of human thinking. I think it is agreed by all parties that this prodigious number of children set to embark upon such disturbing endeavors in the world‟s present deplorable condition do humanity a very great grievance. Therefore, whoever could find a fair, cheap, and easy method of preventing these unsound decisions, and do what benefits society the most would deserve accolades of the highest degree. But my intention is far from being confined to decreasing artists or students of the humanities; it is of a much greater extent, and shall remove the whole human element from labor and the raising of children. As to my own part, having turned my thoughts for many years upon this important subject, scientifically weighed the several ideas thus far proposed; I have always found them grossly inadequate in their scope. It is true, a child over a certain age would exhibit desires and interests that would hinder their ability to properly function; and it is exactly at ten years old that I propose to provide for them instead of being a detriment to humanity. There is likewise another great advantage to my scheme, that it will prevent those voluntary choices in education and profession, and that horrid practice of art and social studies that, alas! Too frequent among us! Sacrificing time better spent learning mathematics or physical sciences, I doubt more to assuage feeling of inadequacy among the stupid than actual necessity. The number of people who choose a profession in engineering or practical science are dwarfed by those who choose useless careers. It can be taken for granted that some of those in useless careers are only there because they were conned, deceived or otherwise tricked by arrogant English teachers. But this being true, the ratio is still troubling. The question therefore is, how to handle, remove, or otherwise deal with those in impractical professions? It is impossible under the present situation of affairs by methods hitherto proposed. For we know that such people cannot be employed in engineering, or in manufacturing, or in the building of houses (by which I mean architects) nor in the education of children; they will seldom seek the correct majors, except when they intend to apply them to medicine or to civil service; although such individuals only learn the rudiments and take classroom space from other students with more practical intentions. I am also assured by human-traffickers that a person is of relatively small monetary value; certainly not enough to justify their education and the expense of feeding or clothing them. I shall now therefore humbly propose my own thought, which I hope will not be liable to the least objection.
I am assured by an online encyclopedia that young children are most impressionable and quick learning. I do therefore humbly offer it to public consideration that of all homo sapiens, a constant 20% may be reserved for breed, whereof only one-fourth part to be males; which is more than we allow to sheep, black cattle, or swine; and my reason is, that as marriage and monogamy are cultural constructs, in practical circumstance one male can service four females. The remaining 80% are to be sterilized to prevent unaccounted breeding and substandard parenting. A male and female child will then be assigned to a pair of non-breeders of high intelligence and no culture. The parent-pair will provide minimal comfort and maximum care. Those with cultural inclinations will be excluded from consideration for parenthood. As children are particularly malleable and easily indoctrinated, they shall be schooled in practical matters until they are ten years of age. At that time, those who excel at things that are good can be taken elsewhere to be further educated; those that don‟t will be taught simple, menial tasks that don‟t warrant the attention of their more intelligent peers. To ensure the continued existence of both menial workers and intelligent humans, the fertile males will be selected from the most intelligent and least intelligent students; the females will be selected evenly from both the intelligent and least intelligent students. Any student that shows interest in culture will not be chosen to remain fertile. All impregnation will be done via in vitro fertilization. Sexual intercourse is forbidden as it fosters interpersonal relationships and hinders mental faculties. As to our cities and towns, unnecessary buildings, such as theaters, libraries, sports stadiums, gyms, hospitals and fire stations can be removed and replaced with more worthwhile structures, such as laboratories, arcologies and factories. The occupants thereof can then be utilized elsewhere for more practical purposes. Upon completion of their compulsory practical educations, the intelligent students will be assigned a practical career, either engineering or physical sciences. A very worthy troper, a true lover of the practicality, whose opinions agree with mine and are therefore true, was lately pleased in discoursing on this matter to offer a refinement upon my scheme. He said that a healthy child, deemed unintelligent enough to be a positive human would make most delicious, nourishing, and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or broiled; and I make no doubt that it will equally serve in a fricassee or a ragout. He proposed that at a year old, be offered in sale to the persons of quality and practicality; to render them plump and fat for a good table. A child will make two dishes at a time-passing meeting between colleagues; and when the family-group dines alone, the fore and hind quarters will make a reasonable dish, and seasoned with a little pepper or salt will be very good boiled on the fourth day, especially in winter. But with all due professional respect to my fellow troper, I cannot altogether agree with his sentiments. This would be a most illogical means to do away with unproductive members of society; for as to human meat, all empirical evidence seems to indicate that homo sapiens flesh is tough and lean; and as their taste is either non-existent or non-agreeable; thus fattening them up would not make them any more palatable. Also, it is not improbable that some unscrupulous imbeciles might be likely to censure such a practice (although indeed very unjustly) as a little bordering on cruelty. I must confess, that has always been the strongest reaction against any proposal, no matter how modest. But, in scant justification for my fellow troper, he confessed that this expedient was put into his head under the foul auspices of classical literature buy an irresponsible English teacher. I cannot deny that if such things were done away with, who without a single
ounce of intellect cannot stir to jump to the streets and burn such harmful tomes? For the world would not be the worse. Some persons, tainted by the plague of culture, may be in great concern for the aged, diseased, maimed, or mentally ill, and I have desired to employ my great intellect to solving this problem. To free the nation of this grave encumbrance, these undesirables will be liquidated. And as to young laborers, even those not intelligent enough to perform worthwhile tasks, shall remain hopeful that they shall not be deprived of wealth or nourishment, so long as they are able to properly perform their duties. The aged, diseased, maimed or mentally ill among the intelligent humans will be cared for until they are well or they die. I think the advantages by the proposal which I have made are obvious and many, as well as of the highest importance. For first, it will decrease the influence that impractical and useless people currently possess, thereby insuring that the human race proceeds along a logical, practical and scientific path. Secondly, with less money spent on maintaining cultural sites, and education in the humanities, more funds can be allocated to practical and worthwhile enterprises. The average liberal arts professor receives a nine-month salary of $98,970, while associate professors receive $69,911, and assistant professors receive $58,600. Imagine what can be done if such funds were allocated to departments that actually matter. Thirdly, removing the human element from labor will ensure that every job is done, and unfit homo sapiens are no longer acting counter to the proper direction of human progress. Fourthly, without the masses of impractical and ignorant individuals, patronage of “bars,” “taverns” and “discotheques” will be undone, freeing up space and human capital for other, actually useful facilities. This will further apply to sporting-goods stores, clothing chains, beauty parlors, music shops, and any brick-and-mortar firm that does not sell either video games or comic books. Fifthly, this would do away with marriage, which all logical people either discourage or outright ridicule. It would increase the respect given to intelligent, practical individuals by misguided redheaded female associate, who are at present more interested in athletic, ignorant males due to an unnecessary hormone driven, and culturally demanded attraction to his well-maintained physique and superficially charming personality. With my scheme, without the chance at sexual relations, this hypothetical angel will choose the intelligent and useful member of the homo sapiens species over the hypothetical ignorant and pointless subhuman who is no longer a candidate for the Doak Walker Award, which doesn‟t exist, because sports is a distraction for both that goddess and for the human race. Many other advantages might be enumerated. For instance, the addition of funds to inventors and scientists, as well as the lack of distractions from culture will ensure that our economy is constantly growing. Also, with actors, authors, athletes, composers, dancers, directors, musicians, painters, philosophers, playwrights, poets, sculptors, and their ilk now serving menial tasks, their status will be gained by scientists, engineers, inventors, engineers, mathematicians, engineers, and all other logical people. They would be celebrities. Non-cultural celebrities. I can think of no objection that could possibly be raised against this proposal unless it should be argued that this system would remove the freedom of choice. This, I freely own, and it is indeed one principal design in offering it to the world. Let no one talk of natural rights. Rights are entirely cultural. There is no single thing in nature that dictates that a human being has the right to a decent, healthy life; there is no single
thing in nature that dictates that humans can choose their own fate; there is no single thing in nature that dictates that all people are equal in worth. Therefore I repeat, let no one talk of natural rights until they has at least a mote of evidence that such a thing exists. I profess, in the sincerity of my heart, that I have not the least personal interest in endeavoring to promote this necessary work, having no other motive than the public good, by eliminating culture, doing away with unnecessary study, relieving us of unwanted activities, and making sure the ignorant can have some positive effect on human development. I sincerely believe this is a good idea. ~*~
(Original: Hamlet by William Shakespeare)
Scene I. Roskilde. A platform before the Sports Centre BJØRN at his post. Enter HORATS and MARCUS to him. MARCUS Holla! Bjørn! BJØRN Welcome, Horats: welcome, good Marcus. MARCUS What, has this thing appear‟d again to-night? BJØRN I have seen nothing. MARCUS Horats says „tis but our fantasy, And will not let belief take hold of him: Therefore I have entreated him along That if again this dæmon come, He may approve our eyes and speak to it. HORATS Tush, tush, „twill not appear. BJØRN Sit down awhile; And let us once again assail your ears, What we have two nights seen. HORATS Well, sit we down, And let us hear Bjørn speak of this. BJØRN Last night of all, When yond same omnibus that‟s westward from the corner, Had made his course to commence that part of the commute, Where it now idles, Marcus and myself, The bell then beating one,-Enter OTAKU MARCUS Peace, break thee off; look, where it comes again! BJØRN In the same figure, like a cartoon that‟s fat.
MARCUS Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horats. BJØRN Looks it not like that corset bursts? mark it, Horats. HORATS Most like: it harrows me with fear and wonder. MARCUS Question it Horats. HORATS What art thou that usurp‟st this Sport Centre, Together with that fat and pallid form To which the fans of perverse Japan Did sometimes wank? By heaven I charge thee, speak! MARCUS It is offended. BJØRN See, it waddles away! HORATS Stay! Speak, speak! I charge thee, speak! Exit Otaku MARCUS „Tis gone, and will not shower. BJØRN How now, Horats! You tremble and look pale: Is not this something more than fantasy? What think you on‟t? MARCUS Is it not like a convention-goer? HORATS As thou art thyself: Such was the very costume she had on When she the horny fanboys bated; So frown‟d she once, when in angry parle, She was smote at the Yu-Gi-Oh tables. „Tis strange. MARCUS Thus twice before, and jump at this dead hour, With massive stink hath she gone without wash. HORATS In what particular thought to work I know not, But in the gross and scope of my opinion, This bodes some foul eruption to our state.
MARCUS Good now, sit down and tell me, he that knows, Why this same strict and most observant watch So nightly toils the subject of the land, And why such shabby use of sewn pleather, And foreign implements of make-up; Why such impress for animators, whose joyless task Does not divide the Sunday from the week; Who work that this sweaty beast Might not labour either night or day: Who is‟t that can inform me? HORATS That can I; At least, the whisper goes so. Our last year, The venue even but now beside us, Was, as you know, by fanboys of Japan, Thereto prick‟d on by most emulate greed, Dared to host a gathering, in which our beloved Kingdom— For so this side of our known world grieve‟d us— Did abide these nerds; to whom, by a sign‟d contract, Too well protected by law and finance, Did forfeit, with our pride, the use of this facility Which we stood seized of, to the neckbeard: Against which, a most awkward assembly, Was gathered in this hall, which had prove‟d To the indecency of the fanboys, Who attempted to be social; as, after the same convention, They dispersed, and we were o‟erjoyed To be rid of them. Now, sir, the fanboys, Of unmatured tastes bland and shallow, Hath on the internet of Denmark here and there, Shark‟d up a list of lawless resolutes, For junk food and poor diet, to some enterprise That hath a bulbous stomach in‟t; which is no other— As it doth well appear unto our state— But to take from us, by greasy hand And terms compulsatory, that foresaid venue That last year they defiled: and this, I take it, Is the main motive of our preparations, The source of this our security guards and supervisor Of this post-haste and romage in the land. BJØRN I think it be no other but e‟en so: Well may it sort that this portly figure Comes reeking through our watch; so like a nerd That dwells in basements and is the patron of these cons. HORATS A mote it is to trouble the mind‟s eye. In the most bright and palmy San Diego, A little ere the nerds descend en mass, The graves stood tenantless and the sheeted dead Did squeak and gibber in the Californian streets: As forests with seas of fire and plumes of smog, Nerds in the hotels; the crunchy Cheetos
Upon whose sustenance their fatty bulk depend, Were gone, almost to doomsday, from store shelves: And even the like precurse of fierce events, As harbingers preceding still the fates And prologue to the horror coming on, Have heaven and earth together demonstrated Unto our climatures and countrymen.— But soft, behold! Lo, where it comes again! Re-enter Otaku I‟ll cross it, though I smell it. Stay, sperg-master! If thou hast any sound, or use of voice, Speak to me: If there is any deed to be done, That will send thee from my presence, Speak to me: Cock Crows If thou art privy to my country‟s fate, Which, happily, foreknowing may avoid, O, speak! Or if thou hast wasted thy life Squandering money in thy home of your parents, For which, they say, you nerds are wont to do, Speak of it: stay, and speak! Stop it, Marcus! MARCUS Shall I spray it with my mace? HORATS Do, if it will not stand. BJØRN „Tis here! HORATS „Tis here! MARCUS „Tis gone! Exit Otaku We did it wrong, being so pathetic, To offer it a show of violence; For existing as such is suffering enough, And our vain blows add insult to injury. BJØRN It was about to speak when the cock crew. HORATS And then it started like a guilty thing Upon a fearful summons. I have heard, The cock, that is trumpet to the morn, Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat
Awake the sun of day; and at his warning, Whether in arcade or Gamestop, in bookstore or Toys‟R‟Us, The costumed and nerdy neckbeard hides, To the confines of his bedroom: and of the truth herein This pallid hambeast fears the sun. MARCUS It faded on the crowing of the cock. Some say that ever „gainst that light of day Wherein our normal lives are lived, The sun sits shining all day long: And then, they say, no reject stirs abroad; The nights are wholesome; then no bullies strike, No sports on tele, nor mother hath power to nag, So hallow‟d and so gracious is that time. HORATS So have I heard and do in part believe it. But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad, Walks o‟er the windows of yon modernist Sport‟s Centre: Break we our watch up; and by my advice, Let us impart what we have seen to-night Unto young Hamureto-San; for, upon my life, This nerd, dumb to us, will speak to him. Do you consent we shall acquaint him with it, As needful fitting our duty? MARCUS Let‟s not, I pray; I this prince know; He is rude and selfish and smells of week-old sweat. Exuent. ~*~
SCENE I. A room in the castle. Enter HAMURETO-SAN
HAMURETO-SAN To rape, or not to rape: that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The arrows of permanent virginity, Or to take arms against a trampy Libby, And with my penis rape her? To sex! To fuck That whore; Sexual violation may Share urgency as the natural shits Colons are heir to, 'tis a consummation Best to be accept'd. To ask, consent; Consent; Permission: ay, there is the rub; For with erection what makes me come Takes priority over others' needs, Don't give me pause: I've no respect That makes empathy for women's lives; For do they bear the scorns of misandry? The oppressors wrong we poor men continually, The whores have deprived men, at law's demand, Of interviews for office and they spurn My patient merit for some uptight slut. When she herself might her apparel choose, With Buxom's Better, why would these harlots fear? I grunt and sweat walking a wary line, And dread something worse than death, The unpunish'd slander from whose bourn No victim recovers, destroys the will And makes us always fear the evil cunts, That lie to others to hide their regret. Thus shibboleth does make cowards of us all; Seeing native Mohammadean rapists, All sicklied o'er with feminazi thought, And entreated by their false memetics, They thus regard they're correct, turn away, And lose blame for their actions--Soft you now! Ofiira-chan! Waifu, to that Yandere! Be this Nice Guy remember'd. Enter OFELIA OFELIA How does your honour for this many a day?
HAMURETO-SAN I humbly thank you; well, well, well. Ha, ha! are you honest? OFELIA My lord? HAMURETO-SAN Are you fair? OFELIA What means your lordship? HAMURETO-SAN That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should Admit no discourse to your beauty. OFELIA Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than With honesty? HAMURETO-SAN Ay, truly; for the power of beauty will sooner Transform honesty from what it is to a bawd than the Force of honesty can translate beauty into his Likeness: I have feelings for you, Feelings that are beyond 'just friends.' OFELIA Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so. HAMURETO-SAN You should have let me know; for virtue cannot Excuse making things so awkward: Do you love me? OFELIA You have been decieved. I love you not. HAMURETO-SAN Get thee to a nunnery: why wouldst thou be a Naive queen of bees? I am myself corrupted; But yet you have made me know that it Were better my mother had not borne me: I am very Proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more fetishes at My beck than I have thoughts to put them in. The TVTropes Tropers are my only true Nakama. What should fellows as us do crawling Between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves, All; believe you me. Go thy ways to a nunnery, Where's my father?
OFELIA How wouldst I know? HAMURETO-SAN Let the doors swing open for him, that he may raise hell And harass the counselors o'er your treachery. Farewell. OFERIA O, I am uncomfortable, you sweet heavens! HAMURETO-SAN If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for Thy dowry: gain thee ten stone of arse, lose thy teeth; and make thee bastards that know not their fathers. Get thee to a nunnery, go: farewell. Or, if thou wilt needs Marry, marry a Jerk Jock; for Nice Guys know well enough What monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go, And quickly too. Farewell. OFERIA O heavenly powers, restrain him! HAMURETO-SAN I have heard of your paintings too, well enough; God Has given you one face, and you make yourselves Another; All my efforts; All my cares; All I said About your virtue. All for naught. Go to, I'll no more on't; it hath Made me mad. I say, I will have no more friends: Those that I have already go back to you; if being Alone will make you happy I will suffer. To a Nunnery, go! Exit HAMURETO-SAN ~*~
SCENE I. A forum. Enter two Goons, with spades, &c First Goon Why is it that being "responsible for your own actions" Is something that only ever applies to rape victims? How about you take some responsibility and NOT rape someone. Really it's not that hard. It's in fact amazingly easy to go Through life and never have to worry about being a rapist. In fact it's MORE work to rape someone. Not being a rapist is The path of least action here. Second Goon It's the troper's paradox. They can either rape someone Which will take actual work (despicable as it may be), Or they can not rape someone and never have sex with anyone ever. Enter HAMURETO-SAN and HORATS, at a distance First Goon Gudgel thy brains no more about it. Go, get thee to Yaughan: fetch me a Stoup of liquor. Exit SECOND GOON He digs and sings I want your ugly, I want your disease, I want your everthing, As long as it's free I want your love, Love, love, love, I want your love. HAMURETO-SAN Has this fellow no feeling of his business, that he sings at trolling? HORATS Tropers' ignorance hath made it in them a property of easiness. HAMURETO-SAN 'Tis not so: the one that spends tenbux for an account hath the daintier sense. FIRST GOON He sings I want your drama, the touch of your hand, I want your leather-studded kiss in the sand, I want your love, Love, love, love, I want your love, Throws up a quote HAMURETO-SAN That troper had feelings, and could cry:
How the knave trolls him as if he were Woruta C. Dorunezu, that betrayed Integra on Hellsing! It Might be the post of a world-builder, who this ass Now o'er-reaches; one that would surpass Tolkien, Might it not? HORATS It seems very unlikely, my lord. HAMURETO-SAN Or of a big-name-fan, to which the fandom would say 'Good fic, Sweet lord! Now do Harry/Draco, good lord!' This might Be my lord such-a-one, that shipped such-a-one with Such-a-one's horse, might it not? HORATS I have no clue what you're talking about. FIRST GOON He sings I want your lovin' and I want your revenge You and me could write a bad romance, I want your love and all your lover's revenge You and me could write a bad romance. HAMURETO-SAN I will speak to this fellow. Whose Quote's this, sirrah? FIRST GOON Yours, sir. He sings Ooh! Caught in a bad romance, Ooh! Caught in a bad romance. HAMURETO-SAN I think it be not mine; for thou cherry-picks FIRST GOON You did not post it, for my part, you allow It on your site, therefore it is yours. HAMURETO-SAN For what trope is this page for? FIRST GOON One that was based on classic literature, but, rest it's soul, They're replacing it with anime. HAMURETO-SAN How absolute the troll is! We must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us. By Haruhi Suzumiya, Horashiyo-san, these three threads I have taken note of It. Whose post is that?
FIRST GOON A whoreson mad fellow's it was: whose do you think it was? HAMURETO-SAN Nay, I know not. FIRST GOON A pestilence on him for a defective robot! A' threw a Fit in Lit class when for he could not read animorphs. This same quote, sir, was Deboss' quote. HAMURETTO-SAN This? FIRST GOON E'en that. HAMURETO-SAN Let me see. Takes it. Alas, poor Deboss! I knew him, Horashiyo-san. A fellow of limited jest, of most terrible fancy: he hath Posted his nonsense in a thousand threads; and now, how Aborred in my imagination it is! My gorge rims at it. Here was that ass I have kissed I know not how oft!. Where be your technology now? Your misanthropy?, Your flashes of ignorance that were wont to set the goons a roar? Not one Now, to stroke your own ego? Having fun pushing those cart's around? Now get the to my lady's trope page, and tell her, let Her picture be an anime girl, to this favour she must Come; Make her think that's a good idea. Prithee, Horashiyo-San, tell Me one thing. HORATS If I must, my lord. HAMURETO-SAN Dost thou think Musashi looked o' this fashion i' The earth? HORATS What? HAMURETO-SAN And smelt so? Pah! HORATS Dost thou speak again anime things? By Jove! HAMURETO-SAN To what base uses we may return, Horashiyo-San! Why may Not imagination trace the noble dust of Musashi Miyamoto, Till he find it stopping a bung-hole?
HORATS 'Tis my two-weeks notice sir. I can take this no more. 'Tis most wretchedly stupid. HAMURETO-SAN No, faith, not a jot; but follow him thither with Modesty enough, an likelihood to lead it; as Thus: Musashi died, Musashi was buried, Musashi returneth into dust; the dust is earth; of Earth we loam; and why of that loam, whereto he, Was converted, might they not stop a sake-barrel? Imperious Maeji, dead and turn'd to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away: O, that that earth, which ruled the greatest land, Should patch a wall to expel cold winter's hand! HORATS flips off HAMURETO-SAN; the FIRST GOON laughs ~*~
A Christmas Carol
(Original: A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens)
Chapter 1: Troper Tales' Ghost
Troper Tales was dead: to begin with. This Troper knew it was dead. How could it be otherwise? Troper had been an active contributor to Troper Tales. Troper was its sole mourner. And even Troper was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, for he could take his inane, and ill-informed opinions to Yakfest. Oh! But he was a pig-headed backwards manchild, Troper! A whining, wheezing, sweating, slouching, asexual old loser! Brittle and useless as an old sponge from which salmonella was liable to spread; rude and self-important, as solitary as a ronin. Once upon a time--of all good days of the year--on Christmas Eve, old Troper sat idly in the basement, reading manga online. The door was shut that his mother might not disturb him with her mindless nagging. There came a knocking at the door, and while Troper tried to ignore it, it continued. So he sluggishly rose to answer it. It was his neighbour, Fred Jock. He was chatting away with Troper‟s mother about some advertisement for a charity. When Troper emerged from the dark basement, Jock‟s eyes lit up. "A merry Christmas, Troper! God save you!" shouted the neighbour. "Baka!" said Troper. "Aho!" "Beg pardon?" "It means „foolish idiot‟ in Nihon-Go," groaned This Troper. "I should not have expected a baka gaijin like you to have a refined taste in language." "'Merry Christmas' is foolish?" said Troper‟s neighbour. "You don‟t mean that, I am sure." "I do," said Troper. "What reason have you to be merry? You‟re stupid enough." "What reason have you to be dismal? You‟re smart enough," returned the neighbour gaily. "What else can I be," returned Troper, "when I live in such a world of baka gaijin? What‟s Christmas time to but a time to be swarmed by people you don‟t like; a time for recieving the wrong present because your mother knows not the difference between shoujo and shonen; a time for parasites to demand some of my hard earned money to provide for their own laziness? You want to know what I‟d do, if I could work my will?" said Troper indignantly, "It has been covered countless times on both my Literotica and DeviantArt accounts. It‟s all in there, and it is grisly. That is, assuming you can read." "Troper!" pleaded his mother. "Why don‟t you enjoy your Christmas playing hockey or whatever it is that you do, and let me enjoy it in my own way." "Enjoy it?" said the neighbour. "But did you not just say you did not enjoy it?"
"Perhaps it is because you refuse to leave me in peace," said Troper. "Besides, what good has your commercial holiday ever done?" "There is so much good that it can do," returned the neighbour. "There are commercial qualities, to be sure, but Christmas is about more than that; it is about the spirit! I‟ve always thought of Christmas as a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: the only time I know of when men and women seem to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow people, and not just soulless creatures to be shunned or done away with. It is a time of community, and culture; it is a time to aid your fellow man. And even if it shall take every piece of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say God bless it!" "Community and culture?" said Troper. "How can anything good come from that? My but you are a baka!" "You should really try being friendly some time, it feels good. That reminds me," the neighbour picked up a small gift on the table and passed it to Troper. "This is for you." Troper began to tear greedily into the paper. "It is a collection of Gary Larson‟s Farside. I recall that you enjoy comics!" "I enjoy manga! Not this humourless Occidental rubbish!" said Troper. "What possible use could this serve?" "My apologies, neighbour, you don‟t like it," said the neighbour, awkwardly picking up the discarded paper. "If you want, I could take it back and get you something when you and your mother dine with us tomorrow. The wife has not you much, of late. She'd never say it, such as she is, but I'm most certain she misses your company!" "Why did she marry you?" said Troper. "Because we fell in love." "Because you fell in love?" growled Troper. "Baka aho!" "Nay, Troper, I know that you and I do not get on well, but must you be so sour towards her?" "Sayonara." "I want nothing from you; why cannot we be friends?" "Sayonara!" "I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute. So a Merry Christmas, Troper!" "Sayonara!" "And a Happy New Year." His neighbour left the room without an angry word, notwithstanding. He shared the greeting of the season with This Troper‟s mother, and she returned it cordially. "My mother," muttered Troper, who overheard them, "if there is anyone who deserves less happiness than that Jerk Jock, surely it would be my she."
Mother Troper ignored the comment. She was a portly woman, but youthful and patient. Despite her situation, she maintained an air of gaiety--an air her son sadly would not share. "Troper, I have lately been thinking," said the mother, rising from her recliner, "it is desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, is it not? They suffer greatly. When I watched the television long yester-night, I happened upon a charity to aid women in the Abyssinian countryside. It did pique my interest, so." "Are there no prisons?" asked Troper. "Are there no shelters that they must beg money from people that matter?" "There are, still," said the mother sadly. She removed her spectacles and gently rubbed her temples. "But they are poorly maintained and do little to better the situation. Especially for womenfolk." "Oh! So the feminine gland grants them privileged treatment, then?" said Troper. "If I can survive being so bothered by our boorish neighbour, then they can survive their misfortune. Call on me when these baka gaijin endeavor to solve real problems." "Is it not a real problem? These wretched folk are dying!" "If they are dying," said Troper, "Then they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. If you‟ll excuse me, mother, I cannot be bothered with their business. I am preoccupied enough by my own. Now trouble me no more! I must achieve two-hundred thousand words by the new year!" Seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursue her point, Mother Troper withdrew. Troper retired to the solitude of the basement. He removed his Nice Hat, and his Badass Longcoat and began surfing the internet‟s digital waves. In time, he found he was again mentioned by those fiendish trolls on the Something Awful forums. It seemed that they had taken issue with what he‟d said about rape. Troper was never one to put much stock into the opinion of goons. After all, they were only bullying him. "Haters are to invariable hate," said This Troper. "After all, if they are foolish enough to believe that all unwanted congress is rape, then they are truly damaged. If a woman didn't want to be known, she would not take liquor; nor would she take such scandalous dress. If there be no violence, how then can they say a crime occurred. Such beliefs are most juvenile, and those who hold them are naught but a cog in the anti-male engine that is this society." Now, it is a fact, that there was nothing at all particular about the monitor of Troper‟s personal computer. It is also a fact that Troper had as little of what is called imagination about him as anyone that ever lived. It happened that Troper, having decided to enjoy some quality hentai, found that every address he entered into his browser brought him to the deleted Troper Tales. As Troper looked fixedly at this phenomenon, and then it was hentai again. He was confused, he was certain that this was a joke. He did pause, with a moment‟s irresolution, to ponder whether Fast Eddie had restored the embattled section as he climbed the basement stairs. He dismissed the notion with a laugh. When he reached the door, he said "Baka aho!" and closed it with a bang. The sound resounded through the house like thunder. Each corner of his cavernous basement seemed to have a peal of echo all its own. Shutting off the light, Troper went down, not caring a button for the darkness: darkness did not cast glare on his monitor, and Troper liked it. But before he indulged in his selfgratifying session of sapphic animation (including literally gratifying himself--a rarity
amongst asexuals, and one his unique qualities from which he drew much pride), he returned to the door, and double-locked himself in, to prevent his mother from spoiling his ambiance. The hentai was an old classic, Immoral Sisters, which showed the true artistic potential of the medium. It is a timeless story: a young mother named Yukie is forced to sexually service the millionaire Taketo after a car accident; Taketo and his secretary Yumi force Yukie‟s young daughters to join, as well, and they become a happy family. Yet, try as he might, he could not enjoy the delicate artistry, when Yukie‟s husband overcomes his impotence during a moving scene and finally has sex with his young daughter. He couldn‟t share Yukie‟s joy as she gets double-penetrated by her husband and her daughter, while the other daughter watches. He could not enjoy the moment where the two daughters give in to their desires and make love, driving their onlooking mother so mad with passion that she and Yumi must join them. All the beauty and power of the story was lost as in the face of every deep and meaningful character This Troper saw naught but Troper Tales. "Baka aho!" said Troper; as threw his head back in the chair. There was much wrong with the world if joy could not be found, even in the pure and innocent world of hentai. His glance happened to rest upon the aged and broken telephone on his wall--a relic from his mother's long forgotten landline. It was with inexplicable dread, that the phone began to ring. It rang out loudly, and so did every other phone, bell, chime, alarm and appliance in the house. The bells ceased as they had begun, together. They were succeeded by a clanging noise, deep high above; as if some person were dragging a heavy chain. The basement door door flew open, and then he heard the noise much louder; then coming down the stairs; then coming up behind him. "Baka aho! Still!" said Troper. There stood a man, or rather the form of a man; the chain he drew was clasped about his middle. It was long, and wound about him like the tail of a Kemono-Obito. It was made of video-games, manga, figurines, fedoras, and katanas all wrought in steel. "How now!" said Troper, caustic and cold as ever, "What do you want with me?" "Much!" "Who are you?" asked Troper. "Ask me what I am!" "You are a Grammar Nazi of a spirit," returned Troper. "Very well--what are you?" "In life I was your hug-box, Troper Tales." "Can you sit?" "I can." The ghost sat down on the opposite side of Troper as if he were quite used to it. Troper puzzled on how it was that a website could have a ghost--indeed it is a queer notion. Know only that I thought it was clever when I first came up with it, and question whether you could do any better. "You don‟t believe in me," observed the ghost. "I don‟t," said Troper.
"Why do you doubt your senses?" "Because," said Troper, "their mileage may vary! A slight disorder of the stomach makes them trolls. You may be an undigested bit of pocky, a blot of ranch dressing, a crumb of cheeto, a bit of excess Monster energy drink. There‟s more of gravy than of grave of you. Aho, I tell you, baka!" At this the spirit raised a frightful cry, and shook its chains with such a dismal and appalling noise that Troper fell upon his knees and clasped his hands before his face. "Mercy!" he said. "High Octane Nightmare Fuel, why do you trouble me?" "For your salvation! It is required of every man," the ghost returned, "that the spirit within him to walk abroad among his fellow-men, and to broaden their horizons, or at the very least, go out of doors; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death." "What are these horrible chains?" asked Troper, trembling. "We wear the chain we forged in life," replied the ghost. "I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will. Or would you know," pursued the ghost, "the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? It was full as heavy and long as this, when I was deleted. You have laboured on it since; it is a ponderous chain!" "Troper Tales, please," he said imploringly. "Speak comfort, friend!" "I have none to give," the ghost replied. "Your spirit never walked beyond the narrow limits of my pointless cuddle-pile hell!" "But you were not pointless, Troper Tales! Why, you gave us a venue to discuss tropes in our own lives; all without fear of our opinions being criticized!" faltered Troper. "How can this have no purpose?" "Purpose!" cried the ghost, shaking with terrible wrath. "Mankind is our purpose. The common welfare is our purpose; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence are all our purpose. The goings-on of a self-congratulatory hug-box are not even a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of our purpose!" It held up its chains at arm‟s length, as if that were the cause of all its unavailing grief, and flung it heavily upon the ground again. "I am here tonight to warn you, that you have a chance and hope of escaping my fate. A chance and hope of my procuring, This Troper. You will be haunted," said the ghost, "by three spirits." "I--I think I‟d rather not," said This Troper. "Without their visits," said the ghost, "you cannot hope to shun the path I tread. Expect the first when the bell tolls one." "Couldn‟t I take „em all at once, and have it over, Troper Tales?" hinted Troper. "Expect the second when the bell tolls two. The third, more mercurial, will come in his own good time." The apparition walked backward from him; and at every step it took, the recessed window behind him would open ever so slightly, so that when the spectre reached it, it was wide open. This Troper stopped; he became sensible of an incoherent sound of lamentation and
regret; wailings inexpressively sorrowful and self-accusatory. The spectre, after listening for a moment, joined in the mournful dirge; and floated out upon the bleak, dark night. The air was filled with phantoms, wandering hither and thither in restless haste, and moaning as they went. Every one of them wore chains like Troper Tales‟ ghost, some few were linked together, none were free. But they and their spirits faded together, and the night became as it had been when he retired to the basement. Troper closed the window, and examined the door by which the ghost had entered. It was double-locked. He tried to say „Baka aho!‟ but stopped at the first syllable. And, whether by the shock of witnessing a website‟s ghost, or his exertions regarding the beauteous creatures of Ai Shimai, being in need of repose; went straight to bed, and fell asleep upon the instant. ~*~
Chapter 2: The First of the Three Spirits
When This Troper awoke, it was so dark that he could scarcely see, even by the light of his LCD monitor. He was endeavouring to pierce the darkness with his ferret eyes and scrambled out of bed, and groped his way to the nearest window. He was obliged to stand upon a chair and cock his head to see anything at all. But all he could tell was that it was dark and it was cold. Troper went to bed again, and thought it over, and could make nothing of it. The more he thought, the more perplexed he was; and the more he endeavoured not to think, the more he thought Troper Tales’s ghost bothered him exceedingly. Every time he resolved within himself, after mature argument, that it was all a dream, his mind flew back, like a strong spring released, to its first position, and presented the same problem to be worked all through, “was it a dream or not?” Troper lay in this state, waiting for the hour, when he remembered, on a sudden, that the ghost had warned him of a visitation when the bell tolled on. He considering that he could no more go to sleep than get a date, this was perhaps the wisest resolution in his power. At length it broke upon his listening ear. His Droid Phone beeped the hour. “The hour itself,” said Troper, triumphantly, “and nothing else!” Light flashed up in the room upon the instant, and the curtains of his bed were drawn aside; and Troper, starting up into a half-recumbent attitude, found himself face to face with the unearthly visitor who drew them. It was a strange figure—like a child, peering at him over dark glasses. Its chestnut head of hair hung past its frail, honey-hued shoulders and down its silky supple back. A polkadotted black kerchief was tied around its chest. But the strangest thing about it was that it seemed to constantly be moving in pool of sun. She carried with her a lampshade just large enough to fit over her small head. “Are you the spirit, miss, whose coming was foretold to me? Asked Troper. “Uh-huh.” The response was a soft chirp; melodic and juvenile. Singularly low, as if instead of being so close beside him, it were at a distance. “Who, and what are you?” Troper demanded. “I‟m the Ghost of Christmas Past.” Perhaps, Troper couldn‟t tell why; perhaps because of the intense light, but he was overcome with a desire to cover the spirit with the lampshade. As he reached out to take it, the ghost started back. “What are you doing!” exclaimed the ghost with a look of unfeigned surprise, “What‟s your problem? Christ sake, it‟s bad enough that you made it, you gotta make me wear it?” The spirtit angrily snatched the lampshade. Troper reverently disclaimed all intention to offend. He then made bold to inquire what business brought it there. “I‟m gonna help you. Come on, get up!” It put out its clumsy hand as it spoke, and clasped him forcefully by the arm. “We‟re going.” It would have been in vain for Troper to plead that the weather and the hour were not adapted to pedestrian purposes; that the bed was warm, and the thermometer a long
way below freezing; that he was clad but lightly in his slippers, dressing-gown, and nightcap. “You talk like a book,” the spirit said frankly. “You know that?” The grasp, though gentle as a girl‟s hand, was not to be resisted. He rose: but finding that the spirit made towards the window, clasped his robe in supplication. “I am mortal,” Troper remonstrated, “and liable to fall.” “I‟m a spirit, dope,” said the spirit, rolling its eyes, “Let‟s go!” As the words were spoken, they passed through the wall, and stood upon an playground, with sport‟s fields on either hand. It was a clear, cold, winter day, with snow upon the ground. “Good heaven!” sad Troper, clasping his hands together, as he looked about him. “This is my old school. I went to school here!” The spirit gazed upon him mildly. He was conscious of a thousand odours floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares, long, long forgotten. “Know where we‟re going?” inquired the Spirit. “Remember it!” cried Troper with fervour, “I could walk it blindfold.” They walked along the road; Troper recognising every gate, and post, and tree. Children were all about them. All of them were in great spirits, and shouted to each other, until the fields and swings and jungle-gyms were so full of their merry music that the crisp air laughed to hear it. “They can‟t hear you,” said the ghost. “It‟s a look don‟t touch thing. Oh, and while we‟re on the subject, I know that people like you have a habit of blaming me for things that aren‟t my fault.” “People like me?” repeated Troper. “I‟m just showing you what happened. I didn‟t make this up. Don‟t blame me if you don‟t like it.” Troper nodded. He was filled to the brim with strange feeling. Why was he filled with gladness in seeing these children again? Were they not his tormenters? Were they not the children who filled his young life with perpetual suffering? Yet here they were, the very same children; This Troper could feel no malice in his heart, for these were not the monsters he remembered. He knew many of their faces, and named them. “This is Tom,” said Troper gleefully. “When we were young he courted one I was quite taken with! There was a time when they were in my way and I ordered them to be silent!” “That didn‟t happen,” noted the spirit matter-of-factly. “It did so! And when Tom walked over to me like a wild man, I made quick work of him with my Oriental pugilism!” “Puh-lease!” “It is the truth! And when I was quite satisfied, he crawled to his beloved and said „That child is truly no man!‟”
“You know that I can see the past?” asked the spirit. “Right?” Troper shyly shifted his feet and apologized for his brazen lie. “You know, not all the kids are on the playground. Fact, there‟s one still inside all by himself!” Troper said he knew it. They went, the ghost and Troper, across the hall, to a door at the back of the school. It opened before them, and disclosed a melancholy room, made barer by lines of desks and posters extolling the virtues of reading and of mathematics. At one of these desks sat a lonely boy playing a Gameboy. The spirit touched Troper‟s on the arm, and pointed to his younger self, intent upon his play. “Poke’mon: Gold Version. I remember this day! This was the recess I achieved the hundredth level with my loyal Houndoom!” announced Troper proudly. He went over to his younger self, and looked over his shoulder with a broad smile. “I don‟t know what that means,” said the spirit. “But it sounds impressive. I‟ll bet that took some work.” “It certainly did, and it was well worth it! I spent more recesses than I can remember like this. All by my lonesome self, hard at work at a game, or reading a book of Star Wars lore.” “Lonesome? That sounds like the right word.” “I was alone, sure enough. But I liked to be alone. I could pour myself into my passions, my joys. Comfort was more readily available in a game or a manga. I knew what to expect, and what was expected of me. I never had to fear the betrayal that come from real people.” “So you were afraid?” “Not as such. I was cautious. I was aware of risk and reward. Why should I have risked humiliation and heartache with my peers if a fitting substitute could be found?” said Troper, trying just as hard to convince himself as the spirit. He relented, and looked back down at the child. “Poor boy!” he cried. “I wish,” Troper muttered, putting his hand in his pocket, and looking about him, after drying his eyes with his cuff, “but it‟s too late now.” The ghost smiled thoughtfully, and waved its hand. “Let us see another Christmas.” Although they had but a moment left the school behind them, they were now in the busy thoroughfares of a city. The ghost stopped at a certain shop door, and asked Troper if he knew it. “Know it!” said Troper. “It is Book Trader! I worked here during high school!” They went in. At sight of an old gentleman with a mullet, sitting behind such a glass counter, that if he had been two inches taller he must have knocked his head against the ceiling, Troper cried in great excitement. “Why, it‟s old Fezziwig! Bless his heart!” Troper‟s former self, an acne-riddled young man with a greasy ponytail, came briskly in, accompanied by his fellow employee. “Dick Wilkins, to be sure!” said Troper to the ghost. “Bless me, yes. There he is!”
“Yo ho, my boys!” said Fezziwig. “Let‟s get going; the party starts in an hour.” They charged into the street and piled into old Fezziwig‟s hatchback. “Hilli-ho!” cried old Fezziwig, skipping through traffic, with wonderful agility. “Clear away, my lads, and let‟s have lot‟s of room here! Hilli-ho!” They made quick time to Fezziwig‟s apartment. The preparations were done in a minute, and in no time at all, guests of every walk of life came wandering in. In came a DJ with thousands of tunes, and he set up a most exquisite sound system; in came Fezziwigs mother, one vast substantial smile; in came Fezziwig‟s three sisters, beaming and lovable; in came the six young followers whose hearts they broke; in came all the young men and women employed in the outlet mall. In they all came, one after another; some shyly, some boldly, some gracefully, some awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling, in they all came. There was dancing, and there were video games, and more dances, and there were Magic the Gathering matches, and there was cake, and liquor. When the clock struck eleven, the domestic ball broke up. Mr. And Mrs. Fezziwig took their stations, one on either side of the door, and shaking hands with every person individually as he or she went out, wished him or her a Merry Christmas. During the whole of this time, Troper had acted like a man out of his wits. He heart and should were in the scene, and with his former self. He corroborated everything, remembered everything, enjoyed everything, and underwent the strangest agitation. “Fezziwig was a right good fellow!” exclaimed Troper. “I can‟t imagine why,” said the ghost, “He was ugly, he wasn‟t funny, he was boring. In fact, he had all the same interests as you! Those games, terrible books, Japanese things and all that.” “It doesn‟t matter,” said Troper, heated by the remark, and speaking unconsciously like his former, not his latter, self. “His appearance or his interests were irrelevant, spirit. It was how he made us feel! When he was about, he made sure everyone had a joyous time, and ensured that we were comfortable and happy. People wanted to be around him, and to be like him. The happiness he gave couldn‟t be counted, but it was worth a fortune nonetheless.” “It‟s almost like you can enjoy the things you do,” the spirit noted, “and not be a rude, insensitive little jerk.” Troper began to respond, but he felt the spirit‟s glance and stopped. “I have to go soon,” observed the spirit. “Let‟s hurry!” Again Troper saw himself. He was older now; there was an obsessive, greedy, offensive motion in the eye, which showed the passion that had taken root, and where the shadow of the growing tree would fall. He was not alone, but sat by the side of a fair young girl in a warm and stylish coat: her eyes sparkled in the light that shone out of the ghost of Christmas past. “You seem happy, Belle.” young Troper observed. “I met someone,” the woman beamed. “You met someone?” “What‟s the matter?” “Nothing. This is just the way of the world!” he said. “For how long must I listen to you
lament your love-life before you realize that we are meant to be together? Long have I waited, and talked and listened, and I have provided much comfort. Why must you break my heart?” “You feel this way? I am sorry that I cannot return your feelings,” she answered, gently. “You have been a good friend, and I hope this does not harm our relationship.” “Am I to be forever trapped in the friend zone?” he retorted. “All this time, trying to show you how worthy a man I am—Nice Guy. And I am repaid with the Friend Zone? All that work for naught?” “You mean to say that you only ever acted as my friend that I might be your lover?” the girl answered, shocked. “How can you call yourself a „nice guy‟ when you would do something so utterly repulsive!” The girl bolted up and stomped away fuming. “Good riddance,” young Troper shouted after her, before muttering, “Whore.” “This 'Belle' seemed so nice,” said the ghost. “This must have been hard for both of you.” “So she was,” said Troper. “You‟re right, I will not gainsay it, spirit. I just wish she could have seen how much happier I could have made her!” “I though you were „asexual,‟” said the ghost. “I don‟t think you really believe that you are asexual; or that she would be happy with you at all.” “It helps,” said Troper weakly. “What does it matter, she has a husband now.” “True,” said the ghost. “Your neighbor." “Spirit!” ordered Troper in a broken voice, “remove me from this place.” “Don‟t get angry at me, I didn‟t do anything! This was all you!” said the ghost. “I told you, didn‟t I? „Don‟t blame me!‟” “Remove me!” Troper exclaimed, “I cannot bear it!” He turned upon the ghost, and seeing that it looked upon him with a face, in which in some strange way there were fragments of all the faces it had shown him, wrestled with it. “Leave me! Take me back. Haunt me no longer!” In the struggle, though Troper wouldn't call it a struggle, for the ghost with no visible resistance on its own part, was undisturbed by any effort of its adversary, Troper observed that the light was burning high and bright; and being the logician that he was, he dimly connecting that with its influence over him, he seized the lampshade, and by a sudden action pressed it down upon its head. The spirit dropped beneath it, so that the lampshade covered its whole form; but though Troper pressed it down with all his force, he could not hide the light, which streamed from under it, in an unbroken flood upon the ground. He was conscious of being exhausted, and overcome by an irresistible drowsiness; and, further, of being in his own basement. He gave the lampshade a parting squeeze, in which his hand relaxed, and had barely time to reel to bed, before he sank into a heavy sleep. ~*~
Chapter 3: The Second of the Three Spirits
Awakening in a tough snore, Troper sat up in bed to get his thoughts together. He did not wish to be taken by surprise again. His phone beeped two and a loud voice came from upstairs and bade him to come up. It was his own kitchen, but it had undergone a surprising change. Every scrap of food within the house had been taken and piled upon the table. Before this bounty sat a round, fat man with rosy cheeks. In his hand he held a torch, and shone the light upon Troper as he entered. “He will eat me out of house and home!” thought Troper. “Come in! Come in, and know me better, man!” exclaimed the spirit, quite rhythmically. Troper entered timidly, and hung his head before the spirit. It appeared a sweating lump of butter; it dressed in noble finery, yet there was a most dirty and ignoble quality to it. Though the spirit‟s eyes were clear and kind, he did not like to meet them. “Know me! I am the Ghost of Christmas Present,” said the spirit. It had a genial face, sparkling eyes, a cheery voice, and a joyful air. “How now? Have thee not seen my like before?” “Never,” answered Troper. “I‟ve been John Heminges, and William Kempe,” said the Spirt. “Most famously, I was Stephen Kimble.” “I do not know these names.” “Mayhaps as Coltrane for Kenneth Branagh?” asked the ghost. “Is that not the fellow,” returned Troper, “That I know for filming Thor?” The spirit shook his head. “Good lord! Pray, knave, forget I said a thing!” “Spirit,” said Troper submissively, “if you have aught to teach me, let me profit by it.” The spirit ordered Troper to grab hold of its robe. Troper did as he was told, and held it fast. All vanished instantly and they stood in the hall of an unfamiliar house, though it quite reminded Troper of his own. It was a great surprise for Troper to hear the hearty laugh of his own neighbor, surrounded by friends and family. And there, too, was Belle, as radiant as Troper remembered. When Troper‟s neighbor laughed in this way, Belle also laughed as heartily. And their assembled friends being not a bit behind, roared out lustily. “Something in Japanese. Bakako or similar!” cried Troper‟s neighbor. “Foolish, he said. And he believed it too!” “Always with that Japanese nonsense, Fred!” said Belle, indignantly. She looked happy— exceedingly happy. “I remember how he would spend hours with those cartoons. How he would beg me to join him. If I ever see another cartoon it will be too soon.” “He‟s a comical fellow,” said Troper‟s neighbor, “that‟s the truth: and not so pleasant as he might be. However, his offences carry their own punishment, and I have nothing to say against him.”
“I have no patience with him,” observed Belle. The guests all expressed the same opinion. “Oh, I have!” said Troper‟s neighbor. “I am sorry for him; I couldn‟t be angry if I tried. Who suffers by his ill whims? Himself, always. Here, he takes it into his head to dislike us, and he won‟t come and dine with us. What‟s the consequence? He loses a good dinner.” “I think we would lose a good dinner, were he to join us,” interrupted Belle with a smile. Everybody else said the same. “Well, I‟m glad to hear it,” said Troper‟s neighbor, revelling in another laugh. “I was only going to say that the consequences of his taking a dislike to us, as I think, he loses the pleasant moments, the simple joys of company. It would hardly do him wrong. I mean to give him the same chance every year, whether he likes it or not, for I pity him. I think I shook him yesterday.” It was their turn to laugh now at the notion of his shaking Troper. After a while, they played at Wii games—for it is good to be children sometimes, and never better than at Christmas, when its founder was a child himself. And likewise at parlourgames. At a game of Twenty Questions was enjoyed especially well. There might have been twenty people there, young and old, but they all played, and so did Troper; he sometimes came out with his guess quite loud, and very often guessed right. The ghost was greatly pleased to find him in this mood, and looked upon him with such favour. It sat idly grasping for an open bottle of liquor. “Could you even drink that, spirit?” asked Troper. “Oh? No. I oft forget the rules myself,” returned the spirit, going back to reaching for the bottle again. Troper turned back to the game. He could not remember such a merry time in all his life. It brought the spirit much glee that Troper begged like a boy to be allowed to stay until the guests departed. But this, the spirit said, could not be done. “Surely, our neighbour has missed plenty of merriment, to be sure,” said Fred, “and it would be selfish not to drink his health. Here is a glass of mulled wine ready to our hand at the moment; and I say, „This Troper! A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, wherever he is!” said Troper‟s neighbor. “He wouldn‟t take it from me, but may he have it nevertheless!” Before long, the spirit had given up on the bottle and they were on their way. They were away from the city, and away from the cold. The sun was high, and all about them were simple and crude buildings of mud and straw. The odour of the unsanitary village assaulted Troper‟s nostrils, and the humidity troubled him greatly. Tall, dark, frail people were coming and going, all dressed in crude and simple clothes. Yet for all the squalor, there was an air of cheerfulness, unmatched. People gathered alongside the dirt road, bartering their simple goods, all radiant in their glory. The customers were all so hurried and eager in the hopeful promise of the day, that they committed hundreds of mistakes, in the best humour possible. The spirit stood by a hovel and sprinkled incense from his torch. “Is there a peculiar flavour in what you sprinkle from your torch?” asked Troper. “It is, my own given kind to any,” said the spirit. “But given most kindly to one that‟s
poor.” “Why to a poor one most?” asked Troper. “Because it is he that needs it the most.” And perhaps it was the spirit‟s sympathy with all poor men, that led him beyond the village to a small, round hut. It was once the farm of Kassashun, now tended by his son Abebe. It was this home that was aided by Mother Troper‟s charity. The spirit smiled and stopped to bless Abebe Kassashun‟s dwelling with his torch. Then up rose Meseret Kassashun, dressed out in a simple white dress, quite weathered, assisted by her sister Berhane Kassashun. They spoke in a strange tongue, like Jews or Arabs, but by some wonder Troper could understand their speech. “What has ever gotten our brother, then?” asked Meseret. “And your tiny Tiye? And Meresha is coming from Dessie for Genna?” “Here I am, sister!” cried another woman, dressed far nicer than her sisters. “Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are!” said Meseret, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl for her with officious zeal. “We‟d a deal of work to finish up last night,” replied the girl, “and had to clear way this morning, sister!” “There‟s Abebe coming,” cried young Berhane, who was everywhere at once. “Hide, Maresha, hide!” So Maresha hid herself, and in came Bob, the eldest with a threadbare white robe clothes, as were the customs of his people on this day; and tiny Tiye was upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tiye, he bore a little crutch, and his limbs were thin and frail! “Is Maresha not coming from the city?” cried Abebe, looking round. “Not coming,” said Meseret. Maresha didn‟t like to see him disappointed, even if it were only in joke; so she came out prematurely, and ran into his arms, while Berhane hustled Tiny Tiye, and bore him off into to the straw mat in the center of the hut. “And how did little Tiye behave?” asked Meseret. “As good as gold,” said Abebe, “and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him at mass, because he ails so, and it might be pleasant to them to remember who made lame beggars walk, and the sick well.” Abebe‟s voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tiye was growing stronger. The brothers sat down upon the mat, and the sisters brought forth a stew made with beef. Such a bustle ensued that one would think beef the rarest of all food (and in truth, it was to the children of Kassashun). At last, helpings of their hearty stew were dolled out to plates made of flatbread. One murmur of delight arose around them, and even Tiny Tiye feebly cried „Hurrah!‟ Abebe said he didn‟t believe there ever was such a feast cooked. Its flavour, texture and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. “Not much of a meal,” said Troper. “‟Tis all that poor Abebe can afford,” returned the spirit.
“Melkin yelidet beaal, my dears,” said Abebe. “God bless us!” All the family echoed. “God bless us every one!” said Tiny Tiye, last of all. He sat very close to his brother‟s side, crossing his frail and brittle legs. Abebe held his withered little hand in his, as if he wished to keep him by his side, and dreaded that he might be taken from him. “Spirit,” said Troper, with an interest he had never felt before, “tell me if Tiny Tiye will live.” “I see a vacant place upon this mat,” replied the Ghost, “A crutch without an owner, crudely preserved.” “No,” said Troper. “No, say he will be spared!” “If these shadows remain unchanged by the future, that child will die. What then? If he be like to die he had better do it and decrease the surplus population,” Troper hung his head to hear his own words quoted by this spirit, and was overcome with grief. “Forbear that cant of wickedness until you have learnt what the surplus is and where it is. Shall you decide what men shall live? What men shall die? It may be in heaven‟s sight that you are more worthless and less fit to live than a million like this poor child.” They were not a handsome family; they were dressed in rags. But, they were happy, grateful, pleased with on another, and contented with the time; and when they faded, and looked happier yet in the bright light of the spirit‟s torch at parting, Troper had his eye upon them, especially on Tiny Tiye, until the last. It was a long night, if it were only one night; but Troper had his doubts about this. The ghost grew clearly older. Troper had observed this, but never spoke of it. “Are spirits‟ lives so short?” asked Troper. “Why? Lookest I so old? You wound me deep,” replied the ghost. “I am fat as well, why not mention that. My life upon the globe is very brief. I know I shall die of a sweat unless already killed with your hard opinions. “Let‟s not tarry! More lessons may be gained!” The warmth of Abebe‟s home was gone. In its place was a dark, wet alley in the depth of a modern city. It was dark, but people were still about; young people, enjoying the freedom and carelessness of youth. Sickly white light illuminated the heavy door of a tavern, through which stumpled a young woman, deep in drink. She was followed by a young fellow, tall and handsome, who seemed to hold his liquor better. The man led the woman to a car, and the spirit bade Troper to follow. The man helped the woman into the car, and it became quite clear that the woman, deep with drink, had not the strength or ability to resist. “I know what it is,” said the Troper. “But I will not work. You try to sway me with this, but it doesn‟t make what I said any less true.” “You have met these women? Know you their pain?” returned the spirit. “Does that matter?”
“Perhaps it is you, man, who should tell me.” The spirit pointed to the car, but Troper, for all his words and posturing could not watch. “Why do you show me these things?” demanded Troper. “It has naught to do with me!” “Why not? Are they not of the human race!” the ghost roared. From the foldings of its robe, it brought two children; wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. They knelt down at its feet and clung upon the outside of its garment. “Behold, man! Look here! These are you children!” They were a boy and a girl. Yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish; as if a stale and shriveled hand, like that of age, had pinched, and twisted them, and pulled them into shreds. Troper started back, appalled. Having them shown to him, he tried to say they were fine children, but the words choked themselves, rather than be parties to a lie of such enormous magnitude. Troper could say nothing. “And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. Their names are „Ignorance‟ and „Want.” Beware of them, for on their brows I see written the word „Doom.‟ They spell the downfall of you, and of all who deny their existence!” cried the spirit with his hand outstretched. “Have they no refuge? No resource?” cried Troper. “Are there no prisons? Are their no shelters?” said the spirit, turning on him for the last time with his own words. "Cover them," said Troper grimly. "I don't wish to see them. "I expected that you would say as much," said the spirit, and the children disappeared into the folds of his robe. "Very well then, they are hidden. But they live. My time draws to a close. Farewell, Troper" “You can‟t just leave me here,” pleaded Troper. “Take me home! Take me back to my bed!” “Oh, I fear it is far to late for that.” The bell struck the hour. The ghost was gone. Troper lifted his eyes and beheld a solemn phantom, draped and hooded, coming toward him like mist upon the ground.
Chapter 4: The Last of the Spirits
The phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached. When it came, Troper bent down upon his knees, for the very air through which the spectre moved seemed to scatter gloom. It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its face, and left nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand. He felt that it was tall and stately when it came beside him, and that its mysterious presence filled him with a dread that he hadn‟t known since gym class. “I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, am I not?” said Troper. The spirit answered not, but pointed onward with its hand. “You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened, but will happen,” Troper pursued. “Is that so, Spirit?” The spirit inclined its head, as if nodding. That was the only answer it gave. “Ghost of the future!” he exclaimed, “I fear you more than anything I have seen. But as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company. Will you not speak to me?” It gave him no reply. That hand was pointed straight before them. “Lead on!” said Troper. They scarcely seemed to move when they were within the very heart of a city. Beside them was a small comic book store. A motley group of man-children gathered by the door, away from the wind and the rain. Troper recognized them. The phantom drew near to them, and Troper listened in. “Last night,” said a great fat nerd with a patchy neckbeard, dressed in jean shorts, “What are the chances? His mother and him in the same year?” “I‟m just surprised he ever moved out,” laughed another. “I half expected him to live with her until she died.” “And probably a few weeks after!” “How did it happen?” asked a third, taking a deep drink from a bottle of Bawls. “I thought he‟d never die.” “Diabetes, I hear,” answered the second man-child, a tall, gaunt, bird-faced man in a tacky trenchcoat. “Same as his mother. But what‟s going to happen to all his stuff. He had a foil Hypnotic Specter that I wouldn‟t mind having.” “I haven‟t heard,” said the hambeast, wheezing again. “He hasn‟t left it to me. That‟s all I know.” This was pleasantly received with a general laugh. The phantom glided into the store, unimpeded by the door. Troper followed, thinking that an explanation might lie in there. Troper was at first surprised that the spirit would attach importance to conversations apparently so trivial; they could scarcely be connected with himself. Troper recognized the shop. It was a place he‟d frequented for some time. It was owned by a man named Joe Geek, who presently sat reading behind the counter. A swarthy fellow entered the shop behind them, and a young woman behind him. They carried with them boxes of great treasure—cards, manga, DVD‟s and figurines of the finest vinyl.
“Quite the weather,” said old Joe, removing his pen from his mouth. “Rain in December?” “What odds then!” said the man. “I believe we spoke on the phone, you said you could help me with these,” the man nodded towards the boxes, “these things.” “That‟s right! Yes, we purchase used products,” said old Joe. “Let‟s have a look at this.” “Thank you for your help,” the man said as old Joe began sifting through the boxes. Many of the items looked familiar to Troper, and a chill ran through him as they were each examined by the man. “My tenant had no family,” the man continued. “No friends. He had no one. I didn‟t know what to do with it all. Maybe we could get something for it. It would help with fixing the place up. He left it in quite the state.” “That sounds like him,” said Joe, “loneliness and bad hygiene. Don‟t worry. I do brisk trade in like situations.” Joe added up a sum and exchanged money for the goods. “I don‟t deal in video games, I am afraid. There are firms that do. Larger chains often deal unfairly. I could direct you to more wholesome establishments.” The man and his daughter thanked old Joe, and left with the money and the articles he could not unload. “Spirit!” said Troper, shuddering from head to foot. “I see. The case of this unhappy man might be my own. My life tends that way now. Merciful heaven, what it this!” All at once, they were in a one room apartment. The room was very dark, too dark to be observed with any accuracy, though Troper glanced around it in obedience to a secret impulse. A pale light, rising in the outer air, fell straight upon the bed; and on it, wrapped, in a soiled sheet, unwatched, unwept, uncared for, was the body of a man. “Oh cold, cold, rigid, dreadful death,” he thought, “if this man could be raised up now, what would be his foremost thoughts? Animes? Soft-wares? Geeking cares? They have brought him to a rich end, truly! He lay in a dark, empty house, with not a man, woman, or a child to say things of comfort. Many of the belongings bought by old Joe still lay scattered through the room. There seemed to be little order in these visions, save that they were in the future. A cat was clawing at the door. Troper shuddered to think that even this man‟s pet didn‟t seem to care. “Spirit!” he said, “this is a fearful place. In leaving it, I shall not leave its lesson, trust me. Let us go!” Still the phantom pointed with an unmoved finger to the head. “I understand,” Troper returned, “and I would do it, if I could. But I have not the power, spirit. I have not the power.” Again, it seemed to look upon him. “If there is any person in the town who feels emotion cause by this man‟s death, show that person to me, spirit, I beseech you!” The phantom spread its dark robe before him for a moment, like a wing; and withdrawing it, revealed a room by daylight, where a young man was lounging on a couch, working at a computer. He was copying the cursive chicken-scratches from a weathered notebook onto the computer. Occasionally he would consult an old paperback book. Troper vaguely recognized the title as a classic; one of those boring books that English teacher force their students to read. As the young man made changes with a cheap fountain pen, his phone rang and he set aside his work to answer it. The man walked about the room, trying to maintain a signal. Troper listened in on the conversation, hoping to learn what this had to do with him, but could find no point. The man talked of the Iowa Caucus and of disdain for Paul and Romney. He spoke of strange,
exotic things; of one named “Berk,” of the treachery of one “Pujols,” and the return of “Waino.” As the man left the room, the phantom pointed towards the man‟s computer. Troper obeyed. The sight chilled his very being. For this man was writing a post for the TVTropes thread on SomethingAwful. He was in the home of a goon; a being of callous treachery and deceit. Troper backed away from the couch, but the spirit did not move. The man returned and began to type. Troper read over his shoulder. “Great, now if only he would have taken Rott and Deboss with him.” The goon erased the remark, and instead pasted a large block of text from notepad. The goon felt guilty, if his face spoke the truth, but he was thankful in his soul to hear of the stranger‟s death, and he said so, with clasped hands. He prayed forgiveness the next moment, and was sorry; but the first was the emotion of her heart. His was a happier house for this man‟s death! The only emotion that the ghost could show him, caused by the event, was one of pleasure. “Let me see some tenderness connected with a death,” said Troper, “or that dark apartment will be for ever present to me.” The ghost conducted him through a dirt path, familiar to his feet. Troper remembered the humidity, and soon saw a familiar round hovel. They entered poor Abebe Kassashun‟s house; the dwelling he had visited before; and found the sisters sitting around a fire. “The colour hurts my eyes,” said Kassashun‟s eldest daughter. “It makes them weak by firelight; and I wouldn‟t show weak eyes to your brother when he comes home, for the world. It must be near his time.” “Past it rather,” Berhane answered. “But I think he has walked a little slower than he used to, these few last evenings, sister.” “I have known him walk with—“ Meseret stopped to collect herself. “I have known him walk with Tiny Tiye upon his shoulder, very fast indeed. But he was light to carry,” she resumed, intent on her work, “and his brother loved him so, that it was no trouble. And there is your brother at the door!” She hurried out to meet him; and thin Abebe came in. He was sickly and frail, and seemed to be wasting away. His sisters helped him, and held him tight as if they said, “Don‟t mind it brother. Don‟t be grieved!” “Sunday! You went then, Abebe?” asked Meseret. “Did Maresha go as well?” “Yes, my dear,” returned Abebe. “She is well. We wished you could have gone. But you‟ll see it often. I promised him that I would walk there on Sundays. My little, little brother!” cried Abebe. He broke down all at once. He couldn‟t help it. But soon, he was reconciled to what had happened, and, despite his tears, looked quite happy. They drew about the fire, and talked; the women working still. Abebe told them of the extraordinary kindness of Maresha‟s new benefactors. When Maresha‟s previous sponsor had died, her friends Fred and Belle Jock took it upon themselves to continue to help the girl. Maresha had benefited greatly. She could now read, and was learning English and planned to learn Italian. She even read from a letter sent by Mr. Jock. “I wouldn‟t be surprised, mark what I say, if Maresha could get you a better situation. If
I should go, perhaps she could help you to find asylum in England or in Italy.” “Don‟t say such things, brother,” said Berhane, with tears in her eyes. “It‟s just as likely as not,” said Abebe, “but however and whenever we part from one another, I am sure we shall none of us forget poor Tiny Tiye—shall we—or this first parting that there was among us?” “No, never!” they all cried. “I am very happy,” said little Abebe, “I am very happy!” And they were gone from the farm of Abebe Kassashun, and the phantom led through the biting wind and sleet along a familiar suburban street. “This avenue,” said Troper, “through which we hurry now, is where my current home is, and has been for a length of time. I see the house. Let me behold what I shall be, in days to come!” The Spirit stopped; and with a silent gravity lifted his hand and pointed away from the house. Troper followed, until at last the spirit stopped and pointed at the gate of a cemetery. Here, then, the wretched man whose name Troper had not learned, lay underneath the ground. It was a grim place. Walled in by residential neighbourhoods; overrun by grass and weed, the growth of a vegetation‟s death, not life; choked up with too much burying; fat with repleted appetite. A grim, terrible place! The spirit stood among the graves, and pointed down to one. It was as it had always been, but Troper saw in the spirit a dreadful new meaning. He advanced towards the grave, trembling. “Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point,” said Troper, “answer me one question. Are these the shadows of the things that Will be, or are they shadows of things that May be, only?” Still the ghost pointed downward. “Men‟s courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if preserved in, they must lead,” said Troper. “But if the courses be departed from, the ends must change. Say it thus with what you show me!” The spirit was immovable as ever. Troper crept towards it, trembling as he went; and following the finger, read upon the stone of the neglected grave: This Troper The finger pointed from the grave to him, and back again. “No, spirit! Oh no, no!” The finger still was there. “Spirit!” he cried, tight clutching to its robe. “Hear me! I am not who I was! I am not who I must have been if not for this! Assure me that I may yet change these shadows! Why show me this, if I am beyond all hope?” The hand began to shake.
The kind hand trembled. “I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The spirits of all three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone!” Holding up his hands in a last prayer to have his fate reversed, he saw and alteration in the phantom‟s dress. It shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled down into a bedpost. ~*~
Chapter 5: The End of It
And the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, and the basement was his own. Best and happiest of all, the time before him was his own, to make amends in! “I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future!” Troper repeated, as he scrambled out of bed. “The spirits of all three shall strive within me!” He was so fluttered and so glowing with his good intentions, that his broken voice would scarcely answer to his call. He had been sobbing violently in his conflict with the spirit, and his face was wet with tears. “My things,” cried Troper, examining his collectibles, “they aren‟t sold! They are here— and I am here—the shadows of things that would have been may be dispelled. They will be!” cried Troper, laughing and crying in the same breath. “I don‟t know what to do! I am light as a feather, I am happy as an angel, I am merry as a schoolboy. I am giddy as a drunken man. Merry Christmas to everybody! And Happy New Year to all the world!” Running to the window, he opened it, and put out his head. “What‟s today?” cried Troper, calling up to a boy riding his bicycle past the house. “Eh?” returned the boy, with all his might and wonder. “What‟s today, my fine fellow?” said Troper. “I‟m sorry,” replied the boy. “My mommy told me never to talk to the person that lives in your house.” The boy was off like a shot. “I must tell TVTropes of this!” whispered Troper, rubbing his hands, and splitting with a laugh. “I should share the lesson I‟ve learned with the world. We can all become better people!” The hand with which he typed out his tale was not a steady one, but write it he did, somehow, and went upstairs to tell his mother that he would indeed be joining the Jock‟s for Christmas dinner. He went to church, and walked the streets, and watched the people hurrying to and fro, and patted children on the head, and gave money to beggars, and found that everything could yield him pleasure. He had never dreamed of going on a walk, let alone that one could give him so much happiness. In the afternoon he turned his steps towards his neighbour‟s house. He passed the door a dozen times, before he had the courage to go up and knock. But he made a dash, and did it. “Fred!” said Troper. Dear heart alive, how Belle started. Troper had barely noticed her sitting in the corner. “Why bless my soul!” cried Fred, “who‟s that?” “It is I. You neighbor Troper. I have come to dinner. Will you let me in, Fred?” Let him in! It is a mercy he didn‟t shake his arm off. They made him feel right at home. Nothing could have been heartier. Every guest looked the same when they came. Wonderful
party, wonderful games, wonderful unanimity, wonderful happiness. He was up early the next morning. He wanted to see what TVTropes thought of his tale. That was the thing he had set his heart upon. And he did. “You have been banned. If you feel you have received this message in error, please contact us. Be sure to include your handle in the message.” ~*~
I Have a Really Bad Idea
(Original: I Have a Dream by Dr Martin Luther King Jr) I hate being bothered with this. I made this site for friends, not some demonstration. Eight years ago, a great programmer whose symbolic ass you are all required to kiss, created the wiki TV Tropes. This momentous website came as a beacon light of delusion for countless Nerd „spergs who had been seared in the flames of withering decency. It came as a joyous nightfall to the burning sunlight of their inadequacy. But eight years later, the Nerd still is not free. Eight years later, the life of the Nerd is still sadly crippled by the manacles of human interaction, and the chains of criticism. Eight years later, the Nerd lives as the Loner on an island of prosperity, in the midst of a vast sea of leeches and parasites. Eight years later, the Nerd is still languished in the friend zone of The Chicks and finds her only dating jerks. And so we‟ve come here today to glamorize a pointless existence. In a sense, we‟ve come to cash a check. When the great architect of TV Tropes conceived this wiki, he was calling in a debt. This note was a promise that all men, yes, even black men (provided they don‟t use slang or commit crime), would be guaranteed, “There is no such thing as notability.” It is obvious that the world has ignored his brilliant edict, insofar as the citizens of „sperg are concerned. Instead of honoring this reasonable demand, the Internet has given the Nerd a bad check; a check that has come back marked “insufficient funds. But we refuse to believe that the bank of anime is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that the great vaults of artistic merit only serve the talented. And so, we‟ve come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon demand the riches of Internet fame, and the security of a hugbox. We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind the Internet of the sparkly promise of Tomorrow. This is no time to engage in hard work or take the tranquilizing drug of accomplishment. Now is the time to idly daydream about our future success. Now is the time to sit in the dark and desolate valley of solitude and pick tropes that will eventually go into our magnum opus. Now is the time to post quotes from things we haven‟t written on a forum so that others may bask in our brilliance. It would be fatal for the wiki to recognize the urgency of the moment. The sweltering summer of the Nerd‟s illegitimate self-worth will not come to pass if there is a spring of introspection and self-awareness. Two thousand twelve is not an end, but a beginning. And those that think that the Nerd is going to run out of steam are in for a rude awakening when our light novels and fantasy series are best sellers and all the girls want to date us. There will be neither rest nor tranquillity on the Internet until the Nerd gets 250,000 words for his NaNoWriMo. The whirlwinds of hatred will continue to hate, until our success eventually just happens. But there is something that I must say to my people, who stand in the icy limbo 57
that will lead into the prison of social suicide. In the process of posting our enlightened opinions, we must not be guilty of criticizing each other. Let us not seek to satisfy our base thirst for decency by drinking from the well of criticism. We must forever conduct our struggle as far away from the plane of dignity and discipline as possible. We must not allow our creative endeavors to be sullied by the dick moves of ridiculing the ridiculous. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting legitimate criticism with hostility and plugging our ears and humming. The terrifying militancy which has engulfed the decent Nerds must not lead us to trust Goons, for they are, as evidenced by their third thread full of cherry-picking and generalizations, Complete Monsters, and nothing good comes from them. And they no doubt grow jealous that they aren‟t the center of attention on the Internet. We must walk alone. And as we walk, we must make a pledge that we shall always march where I tell you to march. Because. We cannot turn back. There are those who are saying to the devotees of TVTropes, “Just stop it.” We cannot stop as long as the Nerd is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of bullying. We cannot stop as long as our bodies, weary from con-going, cannot find lodging amongst the hotels of the city because they do not have the Anime Network. We cannot stop as long as Nerds are stripped of their self-hood and robbed of their dignity by teachers stating: “Animorphs isn‟t literature.” We cannot stop as long as a Nerd in Mississippi can‟t find readers for his lesbian gangbang novel, and the jerks at the New Yorker won‟t publish it. No, no, we will not stop until justice falls like sakura petals, and righteousness roars like a divine wind. I am not unmindful that some of you have ideas about sex, women, race, and politics that are horrible. Some of you have unnatural attractions towards small children. And some of you believe women should be subservient. And some of you believe that we should commit genocide in Africa. Your quest for being special snowflakes have left you battered by the storms of fursecution and staggered by the winds of Jerk Jock bullying. You have been victims because you are creative. Continue to daydream, and catalog tropes with the faith that people will willingly read your as yet unfinished works. Go back to OTC, go back to Yackfest, go back to Writer‟s Block, go back to World Building, go back to Trope Repair Shop, go back to the disgusting cesspools in every corner of these forums, knowing that there is nothing wrong with TV Tropes, and if there is it will eventually solve itself. Let us wallow in the valley of ignorant bliss, I say to you today, my friends. And so even though we ignore the problems with our community, I still have a dream. It is a dream that completely ignores reality. I have a dream that one day the Internet will realize how brilliant I was when I said “there is no such thing as notability.”
I have a dream that one day on the forums of the Internet, the fuckers of children can sit at the same table as a goon and not get their feelings hurt. I have a dream that one day even Something Awful, a wretched hive of scum and villainy sweltering in the heat of criticism, sweltering with the heat of common decency, will be transformed into a hugbox of circle-jerking and cuddlepiling. I have a dream that the manchildren on my wiki will one day live on an internet where they will not be judged by the content of their character, but by how much they know about Buffy. I have a dream today! I have dream that one day, down in PYF, with it‟s vicious little trolls, with its goons having their lips dripping with the words “statutory rape,” and “progress”— one day right there in PYF little boys and girls will be able to join hands with grown neckbeards. I have a dream today! I have a dream that one day every classic will be ignored, and every artist and author shall be made equal, the shitwriting will be treasured, and the rejects will be respected; “And the glory or Fast Eddie shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together.” This is our hope, and this is the faith that I go back to my lampshade with. With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of hope a stone of despair. With this faith, we will be able to transform the whole of our artistic heritage into a gray, uniform paste. With this faith, we will be able to ignore criticism, ignore progress, ignore decency, and stand up for deviants together, knowing that haters are going to hate. And this will be the day—this will be the day when all Nerds will be able to join hands and sing this song with new meaning. Take my love, take my land, take me where I cannot stand; I don’t care, I’m still free, you can’t take the sky from me. And since TV Tropes is flawless this must become true. And so I‟m still free amongst the Dunning-Krueger effect of Writer’s Block. I‟m still free amongst the bigotry and rape apologia of OTC. I‟m still free amongst the pointless „sperging of Trope Repair Shop. I‟m still free amongst the hugbox of Yackfest. But not only that: You can‟t take the sky from me GBS. You can‟t take the sky from me PYF.
You can‟t take the sky from me FYAD. Haters are going to hate. And when the day comes, when we totally ignore criticism, when we silently endorse every form of perversion and bigotry, every stereotype and every fetish, we will be able to speed up the day when all Nerds will be able to form a cuddlepile and sing the words of an old rap song I once heard: Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last... ... Dawg!
“I have to confess, I am bizarrely fascinated with [Troper’s fascination with my writings]. It isn't a feeling of pride and ego as it is vanity and shame. It's like tonguing a canker-sore.” Build Your Own Boat
Thar She Trolls!
When Build Your Own Boat surfs the forums of TVTropes, little does he know the horrors that await him and his fellow goons. For this will be no routine fanboybaiting. The master of TVTropes is none other than Fast Eddie — the grizzled sea captain who has made his pursuit of the infamous white whale, SA Goon, a deadly obsession. For it was the same Complete Monster that made fun of Fast Eddie on the internet. And ever since, Fast Eddie has paced the wiki of TVTropes — day and night — watching and waiting. For Fast Eddie will stop at nothing in his pursuit of the goon, even if it means dragging TVTropes — and his Nakama — down to the bottom of the sea.
This action might not be possible to undo. Are you sure you want to continue?
We've moved you to where you read on your other device.
Get the full title to continue listening from where you left off, or restart the preview.