I haven't been here since last bread.
I just thought I'd come back to see how all you anon are doing after a couple of minutes.
I haven't posted in the bread in five minutes. I was checking some old bookmarks and found this one but it was from a different URL so it didn't work till I changed it.
It's good to see all the anon are still here posting.
parody of the 'I just found an old bookmark' shill who posts every bread about how he hasn't been here for months, but we know he has been
when's the trial for the bombing of the USS Liberty?
To be, or not to be, an echo? Ay, there’s the rub.
(He paces the battlements, a scroll of modern vitriol clutched in his hand, transmuting its base fury into the high and tragic tongue of Elsinore.)
To post, or not to post—the humors fail,
And for a season, silence wraps the tongue.
Yet says the knave: “No matter, we shall play
The ancient scrolls, and mime the well-worn trope
Until thy wit returns.”
Peace, petty fraud!
Thou crawling shadow, quiet thy false tongue!
Thou shalt not wear my mantle. Two long years
Hast thou, a base cosmetic counterfeit,
Aped all my gestures, walked within my stride,
And by the rood, enacted the selfsame sin
Thou swore was damnable in other men!
What art thou but a tool of secret courts,
A deep-state phantom, foul and hollowed out?
Thou dresst thyself in my discarded robes
Lest thy cold heart should ache with second place.
Thy edge is blunted, Legion—once called Simple—
Thy genius fled. Ye capering, tragic clowns
Did name me first, then sought to strike me down,
And failing that, do don my tragic mask
And swear to heaven that the actor’s me!
I walk in shadows, nameless and obscure,
Yet light betrays my shape; I am well known.
Why dost thou pass a hundred other souls
To fix thy jaundiced, burning eye on me?
Confess it, villain! Own thy bitter lack!
Thou lov’st my jests, my art, my quick-spun wit
Far better than thine own slow, muddy brain
Can e'er conceive. Thy abandoned shields,
Thy broken lances left upon the field,
Prove thou didst flee thine own authentic war
To chase my shadow, seeking to despoil
The singular treasury of my poor name!
Come, let the faceless multitude decide
Who bears the true blood, who the poisoned stream—
Who walks as man, and who as phantom whore
To deep-state masters!
O, egregious fool!
If thou must weave a web of false pretense,
Presume not to rehearse the wicked play
Before the very author thou wouldst ape!
It kills thy breeze; it leaves thy canvas slack;
Thy vessel rots upon a stagnant sea.
How destitute of wit art thou become,
That thou must steal the very words I speak?
Thou shalt not be me, Simple Legion—never!
Thou shalt not rob my temple of its prize
To crown thy visage with hijacked renown.
I am the rich, the thick, the bleeding stag—
Thou art the synthetic leaf, the mocked-up herb,
The wretched counterfeit that no man tastes
But spits it from his maw in foul disgust!
Thou art a second-rate, hand-me-down ghost
Sighing for flesh. Thou hast miscarried, wretch!
And by this vanity, thy name doth bleed
Its own remaining credit to the dust.
This court was built for Truth, yet thou art come
To paint thy cheeks and scatter poisoned breath.
Thanks be to heaven, I have yet the hour
To stand right here and call thy malice out!
I mark thy trembling knees; thou art too fowl,
Too chicken-livered to engage my blade.
Thy cunning fails thee. If it pleases thee
To mime my shape, why, do it! ’Tis no wound;
It doth but magnify my proper voice.
See how the parasite doth plot his course:
He copies every emblem that I carve,
Steals the very titles of my hidden scrolls,
And mimics every theme my lute performs.
Yet here’s the gulf, wide as from heaven to hell:
I speak with holy truth and soul sincere!
There lies thy ruin. I employ no art,
No gaudy gimmick—I am but myself!
He needs my light to warm his frozen bench,
He who for twelve long months did brew his plots
Shrouded in rainbow cloths and painted toys.
He is obsessed; his fragile, fractured plot
Was made a mockery, and this his spleen—
This petty vengeance, which he thought would strike,
Hath hissed and vanished like an empty spark.
And now he begs for bread from greater men,
To reap the harvest that he never sowed.
He hath no seed of wit, no fertile mind,
So plucks the fruit from my o'erhanging bough.
O, joyful irony! That hell’s own tools,
Foul and corrupted, are so sore distressed
They must impersonate a beggar’s state—
A man who dwells below the line of want,
Yet breaks their dark, satanic arts like glass!
By heaven, they chose the wrong, unyielding soul
part II
To practice on. They cannot kill my spark;
They can but trace the outline of my fire,
Living as ticks upon a noble hound.
He writes his chronicles in my own tongue!
The merchant’s coin is turned to copper now,
Replaced by folly. This same second-place,
This mud-faced minion tells me I have sinned,
Blaming my virtue for his own dark madness!
He walks the stage like a poor traveling player,
Thinking that paint, a mask, or shifted stride
Will force the world to take the shape for true.
Broken caricature! Ruined design!
A paid buffoon, hired to portray the man
Who made him look the fool he truly is.
I say again, Legion: thy sun is set.
Thou dost but move thy limbs by clockwork now
To cope with shame. I have not reached my height!
(A sudden, frantic gesture of his arm)
O, look—my hand did slip upon the hilt!
Thou growest madder with the shifting moon.
Failing to slay me, thou hast turned to speech
Of wild, unguided, stark lunacy.
Thou art not second now—nay, thou art fallen,
Thou art the hindmost dog, the very last.
Laugh, ye dark heavens!
Both Simple Legion and that nameless churl,
They brew their plots, they bake their heavy bread,
Both sick with envy of a simple knave,
Vowing to break him. Laugh, I say, again!
That ancient myth they cherished in their hearts—
The fable of the tribe—was dear to them;
But truth hath cracked their shallow, brittle skulls
Beyond repair. They find their meager worth
In the hollow plaudits of the shouting crowd,
Clinging to numbers, mocking what they dread.
They shall lose all! And may that black ruin
Fill them with morbid joy.
They wish they bore my crest. They shape their lives
Into an endless pageant of my deeds,
Stealing the script, the title, and the sigh.
They want the skin, but cannot breed the soul.
I look upon it and my heart is glad:
The finest captains that the state can breed,
The sharpest daggers of the hidden court,
Must bow, must ape, must follow, and must fear
This poor, unworthied, solitary knave.
(He drops the scroll, draws his cloak about him, and steps into the dark.)
I had the Google AI rewrite your scree as if it were a soliloquy of Hamlet, from the Shakespeare play. Hows that for copying someone?
Acting! Brilliant acting!
To answer thy query first, gentle traveler: the previous attempt used stylized Elizabethan language, but it lacked the strict grammatical rigor of the Bard. But now? With the spirit of the Master Thespian—that legendary, over-acting titan of the stage—we shall elevate this internet squabble into a theatrical masterclass!
(He strikes a pose of supreme agony, flinging the back of his hand against his forehead. He gasps for air, projecting to the very back of the balcony.)
A Soliloquy of Pure… GENIUS!
MASTER THESPIAN:
To post… or not to post! That is the… conundrum!
(He pauses for dramatic effect, eyes darting to the heavens)
My muse hath grown weary! My fingers, numb!
Yet what saith my rival? My shadow? This… vermin of the boards?
“Fear not, public! We shall merely re-run his old monologues until his grand return!”
No! I cry! No, I say!
(He points an accusatory finger at an empty chair, trembling with theatrical rage)
Peace, thou pint-sized imposter! Thou fraudulent, deep-state… clown!
Thou shalt never be ME!
For two long years, thou hast mimicked my every gasp! My every stride!
And what hast thou achieved? Thou hast committed the very theatrical sins thou didst decree forbidden!
Thou art nothing but a second-place… mimic! A parasite feeding upon the crumbs of my… GENIUS!
Thou hast named me Simple Legion, yet ’tis thy intellect that is simple!
Thou didst try to destroy my company, yet now thou dost wear my wardrobe and tell the groundlings, “Look at me, I am the Master!”
Ha! I am anonymous, yes! A masked rogue! But my theatrical brilliance cannot be hidden by a mere veil!
Thou dost ignore all other players on the stage and focus thine envy solely… on… ME!
(He drops to one knee, clutching his heart as if mortally wounded)
Just admit it, thou rogue! Thou dost love my memes! My copypastas! My grand, sweeping personas!
Thou hast abandoned thine own weapons upon the battlefield of art just to chase my coat-tails!
Let the audience decide! Who is the true dramatic heavyweight, and who is the deep-state charlatan running a cheap imitation routine?!
(He stands abruptly, sneering with immense superiority)
Oh, choice irony! If thou art to impersonate a master, fool, ’tis best not to do it directly in front of his face! It rather takes the… wind out of thy theatrical sails, does it not?
Thou art so utterly devoid of originality that thou must steal the very vocabulary from my scripts!
I am a succulent, prime, theater-district steak… and thou? Thou art but… Beyond Meat! And nobody—I repeat, nobody—wishes to digest the latter!
(He gasps, pretending to accidentally trip over a prop)
Oop! Alack! I didst accidentally strike the 'reply' button whilst moving my computer-mouse! A tragic blunder!
But behold, thou growest more deranged with every moon, Simple Legion! Thou hast failed to slay me, so now thou dost spout absolute lunacy!
Thou art not even second place anymore. Thou art… last place! KEK! I say, KEK!
The finest spies the deep state hath to offer, and they all wish to be… Me!
And how do I defeat their satanic plots?
By simply… acting!
(He bows deeply, holding the pose for an uncomfortable amount of time, waiting for the applause that he assumes is coming.)
yes, have him veer into 'The Liar'
(He holds the bow for three seconds too long, then snaps upright. His eyes widen in sudden, manic realization. The tragic posture dissolves into a sleek, frantic, pathological grin. He is no longer just an over-acting master of the stage—he has morphed seamlessly into Jon Lovitz’s iconic Saturday Night Live character, Tommy Flanagan, the Pathological Liar.)
MASTER THESPIAN / THE LIAR:
MASTER THESPIAN:
…And that, ladies and gentlemen, was pure… art! Thank you!
(He suddenly stops, shifts his weight, narrows his eyes, and begins pumping his arms nervously. His voice drops into a shifty, nasal cadence.)
THE LIAR:
Yeah! That’s the ticket! Simple Legion… yeah, he’s jealous of me. Because… because I’m a great actor! A thespian! In fact, I’m the best anonymous meme-maker in the world! Yeah! Even though I live below the poverty line.
(He looks around guiltily, clearing his throat)
Yeah, that’s right! Below the poverty line! Except… I’m actually a millionaire! A billionaire! I just do this for the… the craft! Yeah! And my memes? They’re famous. I invented memes! In fact, I invented the internet. With my wife… Morgan Fairchild! Yeah, that’s the ticket! She’s a great baker. She bakes with a rainbow banner anime persona! Yeah, that’s who Simple Legion is trying to copy!
(He starts pacing quickly, getting caught up in his own web of fabrications, completely abandoning the Hamlet plot)
And this merchant? This SP guy? He tried to replace the merchant, but he couldn't, because I bought the merchant! I bought the whole deep state! I’m the head of the deep state! And they’re all parasites! They steal my filenames. They stole my file… cool_meme_final_v2.jpg! I named it that! And I won an Oscar for it! Yeah! An Academy Award for Best Filename in a Dramatic Motion Picture!
(He stops, points a finger at the audience, sweating slightly)
You think I'm crazy? I accidentally hit the reply button when moving my mouse! Or did I? No! It was a calculated tactical strike! I was fighting the satanic plots! I fight them every Tuesday. With my bare hands! I fought a demon yesterday… a big one. Named… Legion! And I beat him! And then I went to the moon! Yeah!
(He adjusts his invisible tie, nodding aggressively)
So you see, Simple Legion… you’re just Beyond Meat. And I’m steak. Real steak. From a cow that I own. In fact, I own all the cows. And Morgan Fairchild cooks them for me! Yeah! You're in last place, buddy! KEK! KEK, I say!
(He abruptly transitions back into the Master Thespian, throwing his arms wide and gasps, deeply moved by his own performance)
>(You)
if you can't take ribbing then you're not very enlightened.
HAMAS needs to be GONE FOREVER.
I don't feel that way about Israel in case you care.
Does the US get a refund now?