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Friday, March 31, 2006
You got a chickenhawk on your back, boy.
Armed with axe handles and pockets full of nickels for the slots, the 101st Fighting Keyboarders, Wolverine division, descends upon Sin City. 
It starts out quite innocently. One night you're reading The Killer Angels in bed and you notice you feel a little tingly down "below deck". You nudge your girlfriend, but she's got her eyes closed real tight as she pretends to sleep while trying to figure out if she should tell you that she wants to see other people or that she has just discovered that she is a lesbian and, "no", you can't watch. Next thing you know, you've got your buddies coming over for all night Risk games, but eventually they drift away, get married, have families, have lives.
Now you start hitting the hard stuff: warblogging. Hours spent condensing the combined wisdom of Sun Tzu, Victor Davis Hanson, Carl von Clausewitz, and Tom Clancy into brilliant 13,000-word posts. But you find you can't sleep at night because you want to be the first to shout "huzzah" when Mark Steyn puts up another column about the rise of the Islamojihadidhimmifarians and how Europeans, and by extension, Americans aren't making enough white babies to stem the primitive brownish horde. But it's not enough. Your posts go unheeded or worse, they are linked to by the reality-based rabble who laugh, yes they laugh!, at the feints and thrusts of your mighty sword without realizing that you can save their lives If. They. Would. Only. Listen.
...and maybe hit your tip jar, once in awhile.
With so much passion and so much testosterone coursing through your body, that little vein in you forehead is starting to look like a speedbump and you ask yourself: How can I get them to listen to me?
They know not what they know not, which I know, but they know not that I know it. (Sure it sounds like babbling but read it slowly).
And then one day, you find out that the people who don't take you seriously are going to be meeting in Las Vegas (that heathen city full of loose women and looser slots) in June and one of your acolytes formulates a plan:
Jeff, I have 2 words for you:
Field Trip
tw: ever, as in best idea...
Picture a couple dozen of us, with axe handles in tow, dropping by to say hello. It would be like an Alaskan seal hunt.
It’s a damn shame I won’t be there until the July. Oh yeah. Let the four-hour erection commence...
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