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To blog, or not to blog today, that is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous Caturdays. Or to take arms against that sea of fur-obsessed Internetlings and, by opposing them, thus end the future of Caturdays?

(Yeah, right)

To type, to rant no more; and by a rant to say we end the butt-hurt and the thousand natural shocks that eyes searching the effed-up web and unbelievably strange porn sites are heir to. ‘Tis a consummation devoutly to be wish’d.

(Not really)

Where was I…oh: To type, to rant; To rant, perchance to scream: Ay, there’s the rub. For in that scream and the subsequent death of friendships and a social life, what screams may come, when we have shuffled off this web-based coil? This must give us pause: there’s the respect (pouring one out for the virtual homies) that makes calamity of so much typing.

(From now on, just call me Calamity Jen)

If not us, then who would bear the whips and scorns of perpetually bored trolls with nothing better to do, the oppressors’ wagging virtual tongues, the proud idiot’s stupidity, The pangs of despised lovers (stalkers), not to mention governments’ perpetual desires to police and rein in this whole weird-tastic worldwide web-thing? Who would bear the insolence of those in office (shooting a bird as I write this part) and the mockery slow websites make of our patience, if not you and I?

(Bare butt mooning in insolence here, we two together.)

Who would fart-jokes bear, to grunt and sweat under a weary post-burrito (with sriracha sauce) night, bearing the reality of something that smells worse than death? That undiscover’d nose hair singeing scent-country no traveler returns sane from, that puzzles the will, and makes us rather bear the guilt of a whole can of fresh linen scented Lysol used up, than bear the ungodly stink (admit it) we all know of?

(Lighting a match here)

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the happy, cat-free face of resolution turns a little furred, and maybe stripe-y, with the pale cast of whiskered consideration. And enterprises of any substantial meaning, moments of great profundity (that’s a real word, look it up) with this regard their currents turn awry. And all sense and couth is lost in the name of such base interactions.

– Soft you now! Fair pussycat! Puss, in thy frolicking prayers be the sad suicide of our intellects remembered!