I never ceased to be amazed at the speed of the responses in GQ. Even in what is for the posters the middle of the night. Many of them are so brainy that perhaps they have invented some contraption that awakens them. On the other hand, perhaps they need no sleep.
In my mind I’ve begun to picture these doughty folk, who I seldom come across in other habitats, as archer fish, ready to pounce on their hapless prey, seldom fooled, seldom missing, ever persistent.
I would say a rabid, pregnant wolverine which has been set on fire after being shown Google Ads. The fire is beaten out with the business end of a two-by-four shaped like a Conservative Republican until she blacks out. Then she is fuck-started again by (oddly enough) a PETA member holding an eighteen-inch, battery acid-lubed, jelly-filled dildo purchased at Wal-Mart. The process is repeated until an unsuspecting George W. Bush walks into the room, right between the wolverine and the rest of her cubs.
I’d venture that Comments on Cecil’s Columns is a swarm of gnats. Irritatingly persistent in thinking they have something new to share, only to be unoriginal and wrong. Over and over again. They take a lot of swatting that really does nothing productive. The best you can do is try to walk away, but the little buggers get in your ears, and you can’t help but end up in the middle of the swarm again.
