There are a lot of haters out there. Especially on the internet. Haters fester behind screen names and Twitter handles and relative anonymity. Anyone with a warped perspective and an IP address can lob rhetorical grenades in character-controlled settings, on message boards, comment fields, you name it. If it can be hated on, it’s bound to be trashed.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. Ignore the haters. Take the high road. Use their words of degradation as fuel, as motivation.
That’s all well and good, but seriously? F**k that. You can say it all you want. Say all the right things. Pretend it’s no big deal. But you know what? If someone was hating on you like that to your face, you’d probably pop ’em in the jaw. And they’d deserve it, too.
Think about it. How many times have you watched a movie where the protagonist spent much of the story getting picked on, only to have his one shot at vengeful glory go unrequited because he was the bigger man? How did you feel when he walked away from that moment of redemption? I’ll tell you how I felt. I felt cheated. Because I’d watched this guy get bullied throughout the entire freakin’ film and now here he is with a chance to deck his mortal enemy and he’s walking away. WHAT ARE YOU DOING, DUDE?! EQUALIZE HIS ASS! NO ONE WILL BLAME YOU! THIS IS YOUR CHANCE! THIS IS YOUR EFFING CHANCE! AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
For those of you who have seen the epic triumph of American cinema that is A Christmas Story, you, like me, were probably thrilled beyond your wildest dreams when Ralphie jumped on Scott Farkas and started beating the hell out of that mofo with absolutely no remorse. What a great, great scene. A bully — a hater, if you will — getting his due from the kid he’d been terrorizing for years. Flippin’ fantastic.
All of this leads me to the Thousand Sun Army.
What is the Thousand Sun Army, you ask? Great question. Allow me to explain.
The Thousand Sun Army is inspired by all the internet haters out there. The Scott Farkases of the world wide web. Cyberbullies, one might say. Or pricks, to the less refined. Fact is, haters need to be vanquished. Not ignored. Not treated as motivation. Vanquished. And not just vanquished lightly, either. Vanquished with the power of a thousand suns. That’s so much sun. Think of a thousand Dan Majerles lined up on the basketball court ready to take you on, one-thousand-to-one. That’s the power of a thousand suns. Kind of. Except I was initially talking about the sun in the sky. But then I wanted to make a Dan Majerle reference because Dan Majerle is hilarious, yet effective. So I made the reference, but now…okay, whatever.
Point is, the power of a thousand suns is not something you want to mess with. Which is why I’m naming my vigilante, outlaw, internet Interpol after a grand’s worth of solstices. You hate on somebody on the internet, you will be crushed. Your user name will be blasted into galactic purgatory and you will suffer a veritable donkey punch to the ego at the hands of my soldiers. We will not tolerate internet insensitivity!
You’re probably asking yourself how we plan on patrolling the entire internet. That’s a good question which we don’t have an answer to just yet. But picture this. Picture Joe Dickhead sitting on his ugly, cheap-ass couch in his tighty whities, smirking as he types up a message of malevolence on his laptop when, lo and behold, in storms the Thousand Sun Army! Cue the horns. Heroes to the rescue!
“Gimme that computer, bitch!” That’s what we plan on saying every time we raid a hater’s lair. It’s not all that catchy, but it’s intimidating and could easily be put on a t-shirt if we needed to make some extra dinero.
“Wh-what’s going on?” Joe Dickhead would stammer. But instead of answering Joe Dickhead, we’d grab his Gateway POS, throw it to the ground, slam it shut, and start stomping on it with tremendous ferocity.
Meanwhile, another soldier would be pouring ice down Joe Dickhead’s shorts, while yet another soldier still would be spraying silly string around the room.
A skunk would be released in the vicinity of Joe Dickhead’s bedroom, as a shaving cream pie was whipped up nearby.
A bucket of green Nickelodeon Gak would be dumped from the ceiling onto Joe Dickhead’s unsuspecting portliness, as feathers blasted onto the limey, oozy mess.
In the corner, another soldier would be rigging the sound system to play William Hung tunes on an endless loop at maximum volume. She Bangs, She Bangs would then infiltrate the space.
Now fully prepared, the shaving cream pie would be thrust into the Gak-and-feather-covered grill of Joe Dickhead. Our recorder, the soldier responsible for filming all our vanquishments, would capture the last seconds of this disgrace as we made our exit.
Standing in the middle of a room covered in all sorts of weird-ass sh*t, with weird-ass music playing in the background, and a skunk creeping around the house spraying all sorts of weird-ass aromas in every corner, Joe Dickhead would be a caustic combination of pissed, flummoxed, embarrassed, and humbled. The only thought crossing his mind right then and there: What the f**k just happened?
“Don’t be a hater, bitch,” we’d shout on the way out. “And for the record, this sh*t’s going on YouTube. Hate on that. Peace!”
That’s the Thousand Sun Army. Think before you hate. Beware.