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I.Q.150 Thank You
(I'm feeling refreshed)
.
I.Q.150, I know that I have not given you the attention that you crave.
I would like to take this time to thank you for writing such a beautiful blog
about me.
For anyone who missed it I have posted it below.
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http://blog.livevideo.com/blog/it-s-time-luberator-_1D593984C9924CA0ADFCD6AFE84BECE7.aspx
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 2009 (6:10 AM)
Since you're ignoring me in that other blog you had the misfortune of spawning (you know the one - the one where I turned up, nailgunned your ballbag to the wall, and then was given the silent treatment), I just suppose I'll have to create a new blog in which to brutally rape your very soul.
I've seen your feeble antics - weakly thumping your pigeon chest with one crippled wanking hand and bleating about how you were once Somebody. Somebody who invented blogging. Somebody who revolutionized the whole blogging movement. Somebody who couldn't be defeated. Somebody who counted. Somebody who mattered. Those days are over, Luberator. Your pathetic cries that you deserve some kind of Godlike status for the things you've done hold about as much water as a punctured bladder. It's like Stephen J. Cannell screaming for attention and demanding his name be included in the closing credits of every fucking TV program in history.
You see, Lube, outside of the gaggle of style-biting sycophants who swarm around you like flies around a freshly squeezed dogturd, no-one really gives a fuck about you or anything you've done. No-one gives even the tiniest kernel of recycled corn about your achievements, your 'style', or your blogs, let alone an entire shit. You've surrounded yourself with slobbering scrotumriders whose only purpose is to swell your grossly distended ego even further, and whose idea of blogging is to parrot my words back into the howling void of the internet, swapping a few adjectives here and inserting a few threats of unlikely physical violence there. Because that's what they've seen you do, isn't it Luberator? And God forbid they neglect to use the battered old blog cookie-cutter that you left to them when you nosedived off the Live Video radar the first time. It's their most hallowed and revered relic, and every one of their substandard posts is erected in it's honor.
You know, Lube, it's funny when you think about it. You tout yourself as a mercurial genius, the Godfather of modern blogging, the prophet with a postcount. If you are all that you would have us believe, Lubey, how come the second incarnation of TheLiberator combusted without leaving so much as a scorch mark? Surely such an influential luminary as yourself should have been able to keep the blogs active through sheer cocksuredness and force of will.
But you're none of these things, are you Luberator? You're an insecure, frightened little fuckbadger, who seeks to lose themself among a crowd of equally insecure imitations. You feel threatened by any individual or particular group who refuses to stick to your moronic 'style', and show nothing but unbridled, ineffectual hatred for them.
Just as you're feeling threatened now, aren't you Lubey?
We're going to go for a walk now, Luberator, just you and me. And while we walk, we're going to have a little chat. We have so much to talk about, but we've got time. It's a long way to the mortuary. I can feel you shaking, but it's okay. There's no need to be frightened anymore, Libby. I'm only telling you things you already know.
Ah, if only you'd stayed in your little LiveShow, Lube. You know, you might have been safe there, surrounded by acne-encrusted pre-teens who never thought to question your dubious authority. You could have kept your head down, and quietly gone about the business of pitting your wits against prepubescent children through the wonderful medium of plagerizing SpongeBob videos. Perhaps there, you'd have had a fighting chance.
But Live Video had to go and open their own Hell's Kitchen, didn't they Luberator? They had to go and give the friends list you abandoned a second chance, the subscribers you left without a home base to represent, to participate in, to defend and be proud of. You cast them all aside when you made your cowardly escape.
I don't know, Luberator - maybe it was the fact that you still had a tiny glimmer of loyalty left for the bloggers who'd backed you right until you deserted them like the first rat scurrying from the sinking ship. Maybe it was a wildly inaccurate estimation of your own skill as a blogger. Maybe it was wide-eyed nostalgia for the days when you used to be a name on the tips of everyone's typing fingers. Maybe it was because you're a demented, frothing egomaniac with a curious penchant for self-flagellation. Whatever the combination of these factors, you saw fit to resurrect the stinking, flyblown corpse of TheLiberatorsPissed and send it lurching into cyberspace, ready to snare the hearts and inspire the minds of a mentally diseased bunch of juvenile delinquents who like to pass the time by endlessly questioning the sexual preferences of their contemporaries.
Far from being the fearsome, all-conquering juggernaut you expected to be, ThePissyLuberator was a dismal failure, wasn't it Lube? Membership was minimal, participation was low, and you were regularly laughed at by people who registered there merely to insult you and your struggling channel. The only people who actually wanted to be seen there were the people who had devoted their blogging time to developing your pathetic 'style'. That's one of the reasons it bombed, Lubey ... a distinct lack of people who were willing to sacrifice their self-respect and individuality to become a carbon copy of ol' Lubelips . Manga-style violence, heavy and nonsensical alliteration, and random slews of adjectives all encompassed in a basic 'You're A Hater' sentence. It lost it's humor, it's effectiveness and it's usefulness years ago. Your 'style' has become a running joke among the rest of the Live Video community.
So you had to change your name to stop members protesting, didn't you Luberator? And so the hideous, shambling channel known as FLYGIRL101 and FLYGIRL053060 were spawned from your gaping vagina, sporting a color scheme that looks like it should have been soaked up by a tampon and boasting exactly the same members saying exactly the same thing in slightly different ways, but this time they were not even paid to degrade themselves. And membership and participation is still low, isn't it Tammy? LMFAO!
Your impotent indignation that the website that proved to be the architect of your destruction should be the hub of internet blogdom, along with your desperate, aching need to have your efforts recognized by the community, caused you to register a soc account here. You screamed a war cry to your members that you were going to get some kind of retribution for the sins that LV has committed against members. And so far, you've been getting your rectum righteously stretched by only a small selection of our members, who have nothing better to do and no-one better to do it to.
Of course, soon you'll tuck your little tail between your warped, polio-stricken legs and hurtle for the safety of CanEHdianRocker, hoping to hide somewhere within the different shades of menstruation. And you're also hoping that bloodthirsty LV'ers will run after you, their CAPLOCKS already stained by your greasy, palpating sphincter, and generate a little traffic in the bargain.
It's not going to happen, Luberator. And in just a moment, I'll tell you why.
We're at the mortuary now, Lube. Can't you feel the chill? Shield your piggy eyes from the harsh fluorescents overhead, and take a look around you. Someone's left one of the drawers open, Lubey, and there's a still figure laid out on it covered with a dirty sheet. Shall we go and investigate, Luberator?
Don't look at the toe tag, Lube - you'll spoil the surprise.
Now pull the sheet back, and let's take a look at who we've got here. It's okay if you're frightened, Lubey. It's okay if you scream. There's no-one here but me, you, and that shape under the sheet. Now hurry up and pull the sheet back, Lube, I have a full bladder and I've really got to whiz.
That's it, Luberator. Back it comes. Do you recognize the receding hairline? Does the silly little goatee, the one that looks like it could be blown away by a strong wind, look familiar? Look further down, under the neatly stitched Y-shaped postmortem scar - does that non-existant ball sack stir any memories?
No?
Well, I've got to piss. I'm going to do it right here. You won't tell, will you Lubey?
You see, the reason people don't follow you is because you really don't matter anymore. Your method of blogging is antiquated, archaic. It doesn't require any wit. It doesn't require any skill. It doesn't require any intelligence. It doesn't entertain people. Luberator, your style of blogging lacks any potency whatsoever. The best you can hope to achieve with one of your ridiculous , contrived run-on sentences is a nervous giggle from one of your own acolytes, and there aren't even that many of them anymore. You're not a leader, and the list of people who blindly follow your examples grows ever shorter. You lack the strength of character to hold a community together. You're bland. You're unremarkable. Your opinions are routinely disregarded, ignored, or openly heckled. You're incapable of providing inspiration for the fuckbadgers who think your shit smells so sweet that it should be bottled and sold under the Calvin Klein brand. You lack any creativity. You're incapable of any communication outside of the braindead template that has become your only hallmark. Your blogs are failures, your fans morons. Your authority, your ability, your channels ... all of it never existed outside of the feeble, writhing slug that is your mind.
You see, Luberator, the shape under the sheet is you. It always has been.
And I'm standing here, urinating on a corpse that didn't have the fucking sense to stay dead.
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