Pie fights. Flame wars. Stalking. GBCW. Having to have the last word. Sometimes it seems like more energy is spent disagreeing with other people here than accomplishing anything. It's not all that long ago that there were a number of diaries about what is wrong with Daily Kos. (To paraphrase Aral Vorkosigan, "I could take over the universe with this army if I could just get them to all point their guns in the same direction.") Well, I just ran across some classic literature that seems apropos.
More below the Orange Omnilepticon.
Francis Bret Harte (1836-1902) was an American writer best known for works based on his experiences in California in the 19th century frontier era. I recently ran across one of his poems that suggests he would have been well at home in the blogosphere. I present it here in its entirety as I believe it is now in the public domain. (Taken from here.) Any resemblance to living individuals is purely coincidental. ;-)
The Society Upon The Stanislaus
I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;
I am not up to small deceit or any sinful games;
And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the row
That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.
But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan
For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man,
And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim,
To lay for that same member for to 'put a head' on him.
Now nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see
Than the first six months' proceedings of that same Society,
Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones
That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.
Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there,
From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare;
And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the rules,
Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules.
Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at fault,
It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault;
He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown,
And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.
Now I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent
To say another is an ass,--at least, to all intent;
Nor should the individual who happens to be meant
Reply by heaving rocks at him, to any great extent.
Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order, when
A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen,
And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor,
And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.
For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage
In a warfare with the remnants of a palaeozoic age;
And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin,
Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.
And this is all I have to say of these improper games,
For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;
And I've told in simple language what I know about the row
That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.
Francis Bret Harte