He stared at his computer screen.
He thought, almost 44,000 posts, and counting.
That’s big. That’s real big!
I, Biggy!
“Biggy!”
He rolled his eyes.
“Your basement room is a mess! Please clean it before I call in the junk haulers and the exterminators!”
Biggy brooded. His mum, bless her soul, was 105 years old. Yet still, she did not realize that her life experiences were adventitiously rooted in dasien. Had she been someone different, then she would have been someone different. This startling insight of his never failed to bowl him over with its profound and provocative implications. Click!
“Mother,” he yelled upstairs, “someone is wrong on the internet! I must cling to my cyberpost like dingleberries to an ass crack in order to connect the dots here and now on this side of the grave to the dots there and then on the other side of the grave. Were you not a fulminating fanatical objectivist, you would understand this!”
“If I weren’t your mother, you little cretin, I would have had you committed a long time ago!”
“Mother, there you go again with your intellectual contraptions in the clouds.”
“What intellectual contraptions? You’re in incel in his mid-seventies! Do you realize how pathetic that is?”
“Mother, get your head out of the clouds.”
“Biggy, get your hand out of your pants!”
“Mother, we’ll need a conext, of course.”
And so on.
Yawn.
