It is the 3rd Millennium. For more than a decade the Admin has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of The Bathroom. He is the Master of forumites by the will of the gods, and master of a million words by the might of his BA in English. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Back Shelves of The Pantry. He is the Carry-On Lord of the Internet for whom a thousand IP addresses are blocked every day, so that he may never truly surrender.
Yet even in his moribund state, the Admin continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty commands cross the troll-infested miasma of the off topic forum, the only route between distant boards, their way lit by the Index, the electronic manifestation of the Admin's OCD. Vast armies of photons give battle in his name on uncounted monitors. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Moderators, the assistant Admins, mentally conditioned super-forumites. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Old Guard and countless eager newbies, the ever vigilant Australian Mods of the Night and the spambot-hunters of the Helpful Userbase to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from trolls, bots, redditors - and worse.
To be a forumite in such times is to be one amongst untold thousands. It is to live in the cruelest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of love and reason, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark present there is only war. There is no peace amongst the networks, only an eternity of annoyance and rage, and the laughter of squeaky adolescents.
Author
Topic: [MILK] There were 12 eggs here what did you do with them? (Happy thread?!) (Read 15788380 times)