In the fall of 1687, peace reigned over most of the internet. This was largely due to the fact that the internet had not yet been invented, although a primitive "House Wide Web" had been set up inside several eager beta-testers' houses. They were later burned as witches, setting the internet back immeasurably, to the point that it still hasn't recovered. But I digress. It was fall, it was 1687, and it was boring. So we skip ahead a bit to some year in the future where cars have been replaced with giant flying woodchucks and nobody has computers because the internet has finally been completed and everyone has realized what a horrible waste of time the whole thing is.
In between these two dates was the prelude to battle, and lordy was it a prelude. It had such preluditation that the preluditiousness of its preludeousity couldn't be measured by any preludificator in existence. But quite frankly I the historian have no idea what the prelude to this particular battle was, and I'm starting to have real suspicions that prelude might not actually be a part of the English language, so I'm going to skip the prelude and get to the sex and violence.
As any reader of this historical text will no doubt recall, Cult of Nobody was a web site which the creator, owner, and prelate of this site visited on a recommendation from another site of which the creator was most fond. There he found vapid discourse, unfunny comedy, a total lack of grammar, punctuation, and those other things that make web sites worth viewing, not to mention a terribly tacky color scheme. Boring and pointless were the words which originally came to his mind, but he knew that there had to be some useful means to which he could put the site.
The inspiration struck as he saw that the site included a guestbook, which the creator proceeded to sign, leaving just a brief ramble on the subject of fun. Surely you remember all these things. But Cult of Nobody, rather than being civil and simply saying, "Goodness but this guy must be crazy, we'll just let sleeping dogs lie," slandered the innocent ramblings of the creator of this site on their front page, a fact which was brought to the attention of the creator. The field was set for a battle of monstrous proportions, breathtaking vistas, spectacular special effects, violence, heroism, sex, violence, gore, violence, sex, and violence, that if Hollywood knew what was good for it would be instantly turned into a major motion picture and make millions.
The Center's Forces
The Cult's Forces
The Center
The Cult
Yeah, I remember Eve. Built like a brick chicken coop, with eyes you could get lost in and a body that wouldn't quit. She came slinking up to my office door one evening in late March. I knew right from the start she'd be trouble. With a capital E.
"What can I do for you ma'am?" I asked, all non-chalant.
"It's this battle, shamus," she said, in a low husky voice that had all the men swooning. "You're supposed to be talking about the battle."
I realized right away that she'd been sent by somebody up to no good to distract me with talk about some silly battle, when the real killer was lurking right outside my dingy office with a revolver and no time to lose. I cut right to the chase. It bled.
Quite frankly, I'm only including this for completeness' sake. We didn't fight anywhere near Eve.
The Center's generals knew that the opposing forces outnumbered theirs by at least a bazillion to one, so they decided on the brilliant strategy of capitulation whenever possible. As a result, all the generals of the Center stripped naked, threw their guns, knives, swords, bows, rocket-launchers, grenades, nuclear missiles, weapons of mass destruction, paper clips, supermodels, cheeses, pointed sticks, and tactical laser defense systems to the ground and beat a hasty retreat to another country, where sources say they are living as hermits.
This treachery could not stand. Pope Easier Rhino I, seeing their flight, was deeply saddened, and prayed all night long to the Goddess, only to learn that she was out of town for the weekend with friends and would not return until Tuesday. So Pope Easier Rhino I took stock of his forces and realized that something drastic had to be done.
Meanwhile, the evil and despicable forces of the Cult had wasted no time in completely ignoring the Center and its various forces. Many saw this as a brilliant tactical maneuver, but who's laughing now, huh? I said who, punk? Don't mess with the Center or you'll be sorry! That's right! I'm talking to you, the little punk in Des Moines with his finger up his nose right now! We have ways of making you talk! Where is your unit? What is your frequency? What is the callsign? Why can't you get a decent cup of coffee around here? Huh?
Sorry, the historian got a bit carried away. We'll be back later after we give him his medication and a bath, because frankly he's living in his own filth.
The referee for the battle, Bob Bobson, introduced the two captains. Let's take a brief jaunt back through time to witness this historic event.
Ref. Bobson: Captain Easier Rhino, this is Captain Jerkwad. Captain Buttface, this is Captain Easier Rhino, and what a heck of a guy he is.
Capt. Easier Rhino blushes modestly and waves a depricating hand.
Capt. Easier Rhino: Good luck!
Capt. Crap-For-Brains: Graowl me hungry rrrrrrr!
Ref. Bobson: Okay, we've got the Center visiting and the Cult at home, so the Cult will call it in the air.
Ref. Bobson flips the coin.
Capt. Doofus: Grrrrrr demon!
Ref. Bobson examines coin.
Ref. Bobson: It is heads. The Center wins the toss.
Capt. Easier Rhino: We will recieve.
Capt. Dumbass: Ug me losing you too smart rrrrr!
I bet you couldn't get that coverage from CNN, so-called news-maven that they are. And even if you could, it wouldn't have the personal details, by which I mean lies. Outright lies, in fact.
I imagine you thought we'd never get to the battle. But here we are, and the battle has joined. Well, actually, it hasn't, because it already had quite some time ago, but we're discussing this joinage post-facto so it's fair to say that it has in fact joined. And what a joinitude it was. Inside Bastogne, units of the 101st Airborn as well as elements of the 7th Army were determined to fight to the last man. They were nearly out of supplies and ammunition and the weather showed no signs of improvement. These feisty, plucky young lads crouched in their frozen foxholes as shells rained down upon them and wave upon wave of German android Nazi giants were thrown at them. But they knew that if Bastogne fell there was nothing to stop the Germans from driving on to downtown Dayton, Ohio, where Mrs. Sanderson had just set out a pie, and these plucky, feisty boys weren't about to let that pie fall to international Communism, or Socialism, or whatever the android kill-hordes were in favor of.
I mention this in passing because it was at this point that General and Pontiff Easier Rhino realized that the 7th Army shouldn't have been listed as a force for good because they were too busy fighting mutant Socialist ape-men with rayguns and nuclear breath. The long and the short of it was that the 7th Army was not in fact holding crucial sections of the line, and horde upon horde of marauding fanatics were pouring through these gaps. There was only one option.Well, actually, there were two options, the first being surrender, but General and Pontiff Easier Rhino didn't know the meaning of the word "surrender". He also didn't know the meaning of the word "parsimony," but we'll keep that to ourselves.
Yes, the only other option was to retaliate the only way General and Pontiff Easier Rhino knew how: his secret weapon (which was why we didn't list it under Armaments earlier), sarcasm and vitriol. Using these weapons General and Pontiff Easier Rhino singlehandedly fought off the menacing forces by writing a snide reply to their not-terribly-well-written insults and posting it on his own page for all to see. No one saw. Not even Nobody.
All seemed lost. No one would read the sarcasm and vitriol, and so it would be pointless. Or so everyone thought. But it worked its way subconsciously into the minds of the Cultists, making their goals seem pointless, their killbots explode, their fanatics lose their zeal, and their reanimated corpses hunger for Cultist brains. It also made Satan realize too late that he didn't in fact exist, which robbed the Cult of much of their power.
I'm actually just guessing on this last part. Maybe the 7th Army, finished with its rout of the unholy forces of Communism, fought its way into the inner sanctum of the Cult, dispatching their leaders execution-style with the ugli fruit I said they'd eaten earlier. Perhaps General and Pontiff Easier Rhino, with his mysterious mystic powers, caused everyone in the Cult to turn into an ugli fruit, all of which were then eaten by hungry soldiers of the 7th Army. Perchance the Cult made one too many pacts with Satan and were called home. But what ever the reason, my site is still being updated and they haven't had any traffic since March. I win.
General and Pontiff Easier Rhino bestows upon himself The Order of the Victorious Winning Ass-Kicker, for soundly vanquishing Cult of Nobody without doing a thing.
He awards the American 7th Army with a Unit Citation For Valor In the Face of Not Actually Having Anything To Do With the Battle.
And to anyone who views this history, he awards the cherished and lauded Puce Cross of Parsimony. If you'd like an official award, you have to tell him about your contribution to the battle. If you're too lazy to do that, here is a printable certificate for you. And guess what. If you want a better certificate, you shouldn't be so lazy.
We've done this already.
Just use the damn Back button on your browser you lazy Thuddite.