I love my website. I've loved it since the first day I successfully put a background gif, an embedded midi and a guestbook online. Most of all I love when people come to my site and leave a message either in the guestbook, or more often, as a comment to a post. I don't get many different people visiting and leaving comments; usually I get the same, wonderful, warm, witty people leaving me messages that make me smile and I love that. I refer to them as my friends.
But Bob? I do not refer to you as a friend. I don't like your comments. I appreciate the time you've taken to write your programs to spoof IP addresses and construct new domains and to bot your way across vulnerable blogs to spead your message about viagra and poker sites. But bob? I hate that you do it. I don't know why you do it. I hate that it takes me time every day to delete your messages and links from my website. I hate that you can't find a more honourable way to make a living. I hate everything you do when you come to my site, Bob. Most of all I hate that you're making me use my already over-resourced brain to learn how to stop you from coming here and leaving your horrible spam comments on my beloved Jamjar.
Fuck off, Bob.
with no love, whatsoever,
|[dragged from the comments box to the light of day]|
Bob's twitching gaze flitted between the screen and the door. He nervously typed, but it was hard to do quietly and in trying he was making a mess. But he couldn't wake mother. She was slumped and asleep in a chair in front of the still-gabbling televsion downstairs, but he couldn't risk making any more noise than he absolutely had to.
His virulent code slithered across the screen. He allowed himself a smile. He had the rare affliction of a face that looked better grumpy. He'd show them. He'd write the most potent virus the world had ever known. He alone would destroy the Internet; destroy it from within.
His mouse scuttled across the screen, following the point of his gaze. He was so immersed that at one point he tried to drag it down and double click the enter key on his keyboard. Then he got lost in a reverie of a future where that was possible.
As he idly dreamt, he continued to type. He pushed the keys slowly at first, but, as the dream took hold, he forgot about mother and the crawling, deliberate style was replaced by a frantic, neurotic tapping. He was on a roll.
This one was it, this one would bring him enough money from spamming Viagra adverts to buy that new machine he needed to instigate the next part of his plan. Ahh, the plan. He drifted into his favourite fantasy, the one where he has just crashed the world and is pretending to be as clueless about what has happened as everyone around him. His fingers hurtled across the keyboard, making it rattle.
He'd gain nothing from it really - there's no money in destruction like that - but he would know that he had done something special, something not everyone could have done, something most people wouldn't even have had the nerve to try.
"ROBERT!" his mother bellowed as his bedroom door flew open. Bob's eyes widened in shock and then quickly narrowed against the light that flooded his face from the landing. "I'm sorry mother!" he simpered, as a little dribble of urine made a bid for freedom down his left leg, making a mess of his favourite Action Man pyjamas.
"You will be, you little shit." muttered his mother as she menacingly grabbed hold of the cables behind his machine. "You will be."