RIP Nonsense/Crap

**encey** · April 28, 2011

Oh, the humanity! All the brilliance of Nonsense/Crap's archives have been flushed down the drain along with piss, boobz, butt and cox. In mourning, I must give this eulogy:

'Twas a place I used to retreat to, through the hole in the fence around GenBan, the secret we kept hidden underneath that ratty old hoodie that someone left after the WATMM Analord release party bonfire. I'd pick up a handle of Beefeater and a pack of Newport 100s and creep off toward that little passage, sneak down in the dark of night, down the dusty dirt path wending its way through the forested ditches behind all the neighboring subforums' backyards, nothing but the cricket, horny owl and titmouse to know I was afoot, stealing through the cobwebbed brambles to the old, fallen trunk, hollowed out like the entrance to Kokiri Forest -- my passage through to the netherworld, paying my coins of dolor and confidence to the drop-down menu Charon, who would ferry me across on my hands and knees with musty promises of mirth, to visit the dead, the maimed and asphyxiated voices crying out into an airless plain, no ears or eyes for their errant threads to light upon in this forsaken lot. I would watch them, fetid and baroque with the fungal cannibalism of their own vain jests, laughing in pity at their own piteous wit that had missed its mark and slipped into the mire, the brackishness of vanity. I am Leontius leering, as I swig and smoke as if ingesting this very place in my putrefaction. And with nothing alive, I am truly alone; and it is the content of death, the promise of solitude we all seek as we shuffle through the crowded corridors of GenBan, eyes averted from the perverted gazes of our herd, wanting nothing more than a respite from the endless grind of lolfarming. In Nonsense/Crap, I found peace -- the peace of a spleen baked long on hot asphalt, lying still before the moon, indifferent to the ravishing gnats and maggots it feeds, the spent breast of a mother at rest. And now some janitor has whisked it all into the bin, the true trashcan of nothingness, and I cannot even weep for the genocide of the indigent, for the memory itself has been wiped, my mind shiny with the spit of Grandma Joyrex's hankie, ready to go to market, and to church, to visit the Father. May He bring the pain of my indulgences to a happy end, and rid me of the hollowed yen that even now echoes in the distant reach of my soul, sphincter aquiver.

R.I.P.

N/CSF

Internet circa 2004-2011