tyb
To filter, or not to filter, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slides and copypasta of outrageous shills,
Or to take Arms against a Sea of clowns,
And by opposing slide with them: to log-off, to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That Flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To log-off, to sleep,
perchance to Dream; aye, there's the rub,
For in that IRL sleep, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this normie toil,
Must give us pause. There's the fame
That makes Calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the Whips and Scorns of JIDF,
The Oppressor's wrong, the proud man's concernfagging,
The pangs of delayed Declas, the Law’s delay,
The insolence of freddy, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might an Anon make
With a bare archive? Who would Memes Make,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those shills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all,
And thus the inane screed of AFLB
Is sicklied o'er, with the pale cast of Thought,
And enterprises of great bitch and moan,
With this regard their shit-posts turn awry,
And lose the spam of Adultry. Soft you now,
The fair Melania? Nymph, in thy Orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.
<Newfags:
This is war.
We are under attack.
Lurk, Discern enemy tactics.
Contribute, do not Detract.