To laugh, together pop-ic-ly, the only possible response, and yet

To laugh, together! Morever to smirk, in-unison! In-creaking, enforced emphatics of self-deprication ("trivialize" is our watchword; one simply cannot trivialize enough!) The emoticon also, is your watchword. Words are your toys; you happily make a mess of them, and leave everything always out, night after night, there on the carpet, for others to slip and trip and fall upon. One day maybe you will burn the house entirely down, rather than put your toys away. Rather than build a poem, or a thought, something that can re-turn. To self-depricate, in unison! Comunity, at last! Only do not smirk too darkly, or too pointedly. It all becomes melodrama awfully fast. One child's darkness is another child's foil. You don't want to be teased back out onto the street, do you? Remember, we are all just typing here. We are all just scriveners.

To laugh, together-in-pop-ic faux sincerities. The only possible response and yet somewhere, tucked away small into a corner, fermenting within the shriveled contours of his ideologue thoughts––smelly and musty trailor shack with dank, stained carpets, where a moist, piss wind sometimes blows past the broken shards of window above the shitter...a house where god's presence has become like the pea that was dropped from the plastic dinner fork and richocheted off the plate unnoticed, long-ago, and so still resides in darkness, wedged beneath the sofa cushions––the self-appointed spokesman for the Horrorwitsas is chuckling. He is sneering:

"How typical of Berebulbubs. At least their antics kept them busy for a while...all publicity is good publicity! And their zeal in mocking, how it seems designed only to hurt Our feelings, (otherwise, why would they bother?)...I know, we've got it! Everything about them only confirms x, y, the moon and z!...and in any case, that many more people now know the name of Horrorwitsa. Our distracting of the enemy has not gone unnoticed by the Big Wistas (how logical and good it makes them look!) We'll book some more shows yet. We'll call it a movement. Nay, a revolution. But first back to the entertainment; let us compose yet another half-wisted rejoinder (kinda fun!) At all costs the dancing 'round the sacrificial bonfire mustn't stop! "

To which the Berebulbubs will again respond, in a witty twenty-paragraph blog, that he and his are "simply shocked, shocked!"...&c.

Does it ever end? Is this necessary and warranted vigilance, or something else, blowing off steam...play-acting? Lots and lots of people take this sort of thing for the real thing, that counts, the real debate! At some point the contestants even, must take it seriously, otherwise they are just two talking heads, two idiots who like to hear themselves talk.

Let us recall the old, the ancient Adager! He who declared that setting an idiot straight (however "not serious" your address) does not a wise man make! It just makes you a man who is holding forth with an idiot! Not that we're not as guilty as the next, of course, of relishing certain parts of the show...We excites on it! Comedy made Central!

(Do you persecution-complex much, McCarthy? Recalling the two primary things about paranoia, that a) it is delusional, unconnected to reality; and b) it is always about oneself, glass bubble-headedly egocentric. These are qualities that are sometimes interesting by themselves, when there is still a chance of some redemption. But attached, with rubber suction cups for hands and head, to the bottom of an airplane's wings labeled in bold with letters spelling Worldview, any such possibility of charm is quickly...disappeared.)

But to dream of a world, or of a people, who pay no mind to Horrowistas. Not sneering down. A bit pitying perhaps, if pressed for an opinion. Nothing like an Opinion, however, for Opinions do not really matter all that much! But a world, a people, or a certain community where the need to police against the possibility of radical Horrowitsa has long since become outmoded, archaic, obsolete; a community unconcerned for such nostalgic trifles, a community born by silent recognition, intuitively trusting such performances to their merely marginal, indeed irrelevant status. A community worthy of some name or other, perhaps, but satisfied with none in particular, pursuing nothing that could ever responsibly be capitalized, only to be left at that.

**UPDATE**:  Please do read this.