Death To Writers Redux

With the small blogstorm today caused by Miss Mary, I suddenly recalled a screed I penned six years ago in response to another blowhard. Please pardon the profanity. The internets were a much wilder place back then.

From 5-21-01

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You put somebody in front of a keyboard and they think they are a writer. Every two-bit hooker in every rat sewer in every hapless burg in this nation can buy a godd*mn 10 cent thesaurus, stroll down to the local library, tip the pruned up matron and peck away to form their GREAT AND FOUL WORK! It's suddenly like a cheap whorehouse in here!

Soon, everyone will be a writer. Soon, everyone will bleed at their gums as they read their grand missives in the great green capitalist coffee houses. But you won't get me, you bastards. Never will you get me. I will pull at my eyes like that wretch Oedipus and pluck at my own liver like some self-flagellating Prometheus before you get me.

Death to the writers! Their time has come and gone! They laze about like flatulent dinosaurs as the comet aims for their beady eyes, never noticing the nascent mammals rending their flesh. They should have the grace to fall into a pile of great quivering sh*t but instead they writhe and clutch at their fleeting talents like men stranded in the desert drinking their own piss.

There is no honor in that profession any more. Wordsmiths they call themselves! Word pimps I call them! They jabber in the night keeping us all awake with their foul mutterings. We must put them all out of their misery. It's the only decent thing to do!

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And you think I'm nasty these days? And apologies to the late, great HST.

edited slightly from the original for clarity and grammar.