The commenters began to shuffle out in a desultory fashion, their feet making splishing and sploshing noises as they trod through the various reeking viscous liquids and quivery bits. Rufus began singing the Commenter Anthem:

Every comment’s sacred,

Every comment’s great,

Everytime we post one,

She gets quite irate.


Monégasque Mercenary and Woodchuck of Foreboding began to skip towards one another and as they passed they locked arms and slid one eighty on the slickery floor.

Every snark is wanted,

Every snark is good,

Every Godwin needed,

In our neighborhood.


Axl and Rufus, Drs Bombay (you know, from Mumbai) and Funkenstein, and various other pairings of commenters  also did the skip, link and spin until the whole chamber was filled with singing, dancing and airborne droplets of bodily fluids kicked up by all the footwork.

Let the snowflakes spill tears,

By gallons in their pain,

Market glut shall make us,

Flush them down the drain.


Once each dance couple parted the two members each skipped towards a new partner in a great chain reaction of free radicals for liberty.

Every fact-check needed,

Every takedown great,

Every time we reason,

Progs get quite irate.


Then the commenters all linked arms and did a kick-step-kick first leftwards then rightwards.

Let Preet now come with,

Subpoenas by the pound,

Ken shall show that mutton-

Head the law more sound.

At the mention of Preet the commenters unlinked arms, bent over, dropped trou or flipped up skirts and mooned with the full knowledge that performance of rude gestures in an absurd fictional production number does not rise anywhere near the level of an actual threat.

Trolls they doth Gambol,

Cross the fields and plain,

Nothing we can e’er do,

Will make them not insane.


The sight of the commenters’ bums was not a pretty one what with all the welts, boils, sores, lesions, scabs, pustules, scars and tattoos. But show and shake them they did as if there were actually an audience, or a camera or if the scene were being described by an invisible narrator in a piece of cringeworthy slashfic.

Every comment’s sacred,

Every comment’s great,

Everytime we post one,

She gets quite irate.


With the commenters still bent-over and mooning, the most dainty and petite of the commenters, wearing a shimmery elfin dress such as one would see on an Olympic ice-dancing contestant slid towards the end of the line of commenters and vaulted upwards and over in a somersault then untucking to do a series of cartwheels along the backs of the commenters. before vaulting off the last commenter and exiting stage right.

The commenters quickly pulled their garments up and formed a human pyramid with Dr. Bombay at the apex, his South Asian indigenous shamanic outfit festooned with multiple indigenous South Asian gnostic symbols of various sizes and colors, a virtual follow spot illuminating him.

And, cut.