Oppression: A Tale of Two Beards

[Beardbeard]

It was the worst of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of circlejerking, it was the age of admin power trips, it was the epoch of no fun, it was the epoch of restrictive rules, it was the season of dicks, it was the season of cunts, it was the spring of erp, it was the winter of bad coders, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Hell, we were all going direct the same way – in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

The HotelBravoLima was in its usual genial position that the HotelBravoLima suspected the players, the players suspected one another and the HotelBravoLima, they all suspected Beardbeard, and the host was sure of nothing but the shitposting in WoD generals; as to which anons he could with a clear conscience have taken his oath on the two Testaments that they were not fit to play his game.

A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every player is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A solemn consideration, when I enter a shit server by night, that every one of those pink haired female avatars encloses its own secret; that every pixel in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating dick in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the dick nearest it! Something of the awfulness, even of permanent banning itself, is referable to this. No more can I post on the boards of this dear community that I loved, and vainly hope in time to read it all. No more can I look into the depths of this unfathomable community, wherein, as momentary I posted into it, I have had glimpses of oppressive admins and other things submerged. It was appointed that the community should shut with a ban, for ever and for ever, when I had made but a post. It was appointed that the water should be locked in an eternal frost, when the light was playing on its surface, and I stood in ignorance on the shore. My friend is dead, my neighbour is dead, my love, the darling of my soul, is dead; it is the inexorable consolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that individuality, and which I shall carry in mine to my life's end. In any of the archives of this board through which I pass, is there a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their innermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?

[Psyentific]

Here we go again

[Pandarsenic]

tl;dr