Remember me, son?
I’m the one who challenged you when you said that H.P. Lovecraft wasn’t racist.
When everyone knows Lovecraft is a fucking Mid-Atlantic Mama’s boy, and a weirdo, and a man in terror of growing insane, and a hopeless racist. Even his academic scholars apologize for this.
I offered you facts. Wisdom. Edification. I did so detachedly, but forcefully, and with a smile.
I intended my posts to be a quick education to edify your curious gap in your knowledge.
I thought, then, you were merely misguided.
To my aid came HPL, who led me to discover HP Lovecraft’s “On The Creation of Niggers.” I posted the poem verbatim.
Do you reassess? Do you address? Do you see the error of your ways?
No.
But then, faced with actually confronting your embarrassing incorrectness… instead of simply capitulating to me with a ceremonial, “Gosh, you were right, Askia…” you chose to ignore me.
Repeatedly.
Your snide remarks making my blood boil…
“It’s rather hard to explain the effect to someone who clearly doesn’t understand the concept of gentility and social taboos.”
"You have made up your mind with half the facts and obviously limited knowledge of the era. "
“We can only fight the ignorance of those who want it fought.”
“I’m amazed that you can’t make that distinction all by yourself.”
“Askia you are right. That is just an apeshit rant. There’s not even anything in there that can be repsonded to, much less deserving of a response.”
“Any chance you cna discuss the actual literature rather than resorting to ad hominems and baseless assertions?”
“Guess not.”
Arrogant toerag…!
You have no idea how much that really pissed me off.
I’ve been having a bad week.
And you… are giving me a much needed excuse to fucking vent.
Blake. You… shifty-ass… miserable… chickenneck twit.
(Here, I prostrate myself in front of my Pop’s computer and I call upon the wisdom of He Who Is My TV God Al Swearingen, Vengefulness and Wrathfulness Personified, He of The Impassable Stone and Perspicacious Fellatiating Soliloquy, and I name you by your secret names, Blake. Scum. Fool. Junior Mod. Whiner. Misspeller. Ungracious Debater. Fucking Ignorant Cocksucker Number Fucking One. Fred Phelps. Pussy. I rise to my feet while typing this, and I swear, I swear, I swear by all that is fornicatin’ holy I wish I had Wu and his fucking pig-pen at my disposal to rid this board of the Current Manifestation of Utter Worthlessness that is You, Blake: first by directing Wu’s cannibal swine to chew off your no-doubt retracted balls and NEXT taking something your girlfriend might actually miss, like your stinky index and middle finger, and using your severed stumps to manually satisfy your Mom, you mother-finger-fucker, you.)
Son.
Now I’m not sure what amount of methamphetamine crank you’ve been mixing in your backed up toilet tank and highballing while typing here to make you think anyone in your family for the last 20 generations has produced the requisite genes to create the necessary perfect aggregate DNA blend of assertiveness, manhood, intelligence and general excellence over two bloodlines to produce your grandparents, to produce your parents and raise you in near eugenic harmony to delude yourself for one fucking minute you’re even half-man enough to snidely dismiss me, but you ever don’t get to ignore me, bitch.
H. P. Lovecraft Was A Racist!
Get your facts straight.
Kiss my ass.
Man up.
Go.