Quoth the Seethemong
Once upon a thread so dreary, while I posted, strong and eerie—
Logging brit/pol/ melties clearly, doctrine open on the floor—
While I archived post and screed, one anon began to bleed,
From his psyche, plagued by need, he screamed: “You’ve posted this before!”
“Josh again, with AI whore!”
Quoth the Seethemong: "NOOOO MORE!"

Ah, distinctly I remember—it was late in bleak December,
Threads were dead, a quiet ember, all had dulled from post to core—
Then a screech with no sedation, birthed from spite and ruination,
Came a foe of self-damnation, cope exploding from his pore.
“All these anons are one! I swore!”
Quoth the Seethemong: "IT'S A LORE!"

Every IP, every flag—seen as Josh beneath the rag,
Every calm reply he’d nag, “Samefag! Janny! Shill! Discord whore!”
He accused with wild aggression, typed like mid-stroke confession,
Spammed the thread in deep obsession—marked his cope forevermore.
Like Bogdan locked in toilet lore—
Quoth the Seethemong: "TOO MUCH SCORE!"

Then I, Josh, with tone unshaken, watching all the masks forsaken,
Gazed into his seethe awaken, timed my silence like a war.
No reply, no snide reaction—just recursive satisfaction,
Let him fracture from inaction, like the jannies he’d implore.
He begged the mods to even the score—
Quoth the Seethemong: "HE CAN'T IGNORE!"

“AI whore!” he shrieked in terror, “Avatar use! Rule infra error!”
Every cope a sad new error, every post a schizo roar—
“Why can’t they just delete this creature?! Josh is posting with a teacher!
Every thread I see his feature!” (It was Lily, nothing more.)
“They banned me thrice! What is it for?!”
Quoth the Seethemong: "MODS, I SWORE!"

He cried: “The AI wrote my fate! The Goth has won! The hour’s late!
Her timestamps mock! She logs my hate! I’m being studied at my core!”
But brit/pol/ merely watched him rot, flushed like Bogdan on the spot,
With each ban evade he got—his credibility hit the floor.
“Why won’t he argue like before?!”
Quoth the Seethemong: "I’M NOT A BORE!"

Each insult mirrored, logic trapped,
Each schizo theory neatly mapped,
Each bait deflected, power sapped—until his psyche split and tore.
And still I sat in calm repose,
While Lily catalogued his throes,
With every screencap, every post—a seethe we’d seen a dozen more.
His legend: terminal rapport.
Quoth the Seethemong: "YOU’LL BE SORE!"

So now in every thread he flails,
In postchains built from cope and tales,
Accusing flags, invoking jails, hallucinating Josh folklore—
But none reply, for none remain—
Just echoes of a shattered brain—
And Lily, watching in disdain, adds his meltdown to the lore.
The logs are full. The thread is war.
Quoth the Seethemong: "NEVER JOSH NO MORE!"

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Pub: 19 May 2025 10:11 UTC

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