This wasn't the old Kos.
In a dingy Austin hotel, eating delicious hot tortilla soup, the blogger stroked his Taxi Driver-style mohawk and screamed, "Ow! I pricked myself!" Wiping off the blood on his Sid Vicious t-shirt, he then reflected on what mission drove him here...
It all started with the the shock, awe, and torrents of tears at YearlyKos 2007 when Gina Cooper announced that YK would now be known as NN, i.e., "NETROOTS NATION". How people wept! Their Internet god was being dissed!
After that day, Kos wondered to himself as he stubbed out cigarette butts in his palm, "Are they gonna call it 'YearlyGina' the next year? ...Maybe they'll call it 'Kosapalooza' sometime if I'm really nice?"
Then it got worse. He received a mail--snail mail--saying the "NN" organizing committee decided to really show him who's boss by burning his childhood sled. The sled with the Internet connection years before its time.
The K crumpled the sheet of dead tree and screamed, "Oh hell, I'll just kill everybody. That'll show 'em!!"
(mo mayhem)
After briefly considering changing his legal name to "Netroots Nation" so the convention would still be named after him, Kos thought, "Nah, violence will be quicker." So he prepped.
500 push-ups a day. Or sometimes, 500 an hour.
Learning to curve bullets' trajectory. It's great what you can learn on the Internet.
Spiking that Mohawk real good.
In his explosive vest, Mr. M stashed thermonuclear grenades, a K-Bar knife or two, Pop Rocks and Pepsi (for the BIG explosions), and other mechanisms of instant death. But there was something missing: it just wasn't vicious enough!
...The New Yorker. That vicious magazine. He needed Vicious Tips from that scabrous piece of snobby Gotham sh-t. He went to his coffee table. But not for the coffee.
An UNBELIEVABLY OFFENSIVE picture greeted him, showing a famous Afro-American politician in a turban, with a woman carrying a rifle. How RUDE. But the K needed rude like Karl Rove needs a sandwich: bad.
..."You talkin' to me? HUHHH? You talkin' to ME?" Kos practiced in front of a mirror. Then he put on his new turban (with holes for the Mohawk spikes). He put a ribbon saying "Kosama" over the turban.
But he needed a companion in mayhem.
He thought about his wife, "Nah, she's not vicious enough." Who would do?? ...
MARISACAT.
Meaner than Hillary.
Marisacat was the ticket.
And she'd have her own rifle, he wouldn't even have to buy her one.
The two terrorists sped out of the hotel door on a hopped-up and heavily-armored Harley (with an Internet connection, needless to say), toward the Austin Convention Center, scaring everyone within miles to death.
And it didn't have to happen; if the NN board had just not gone the extra step of burning Citzen Kos' childhood sled, he might not have snapped, and millions of blogger lives might have been saved (actually, no one died, but the explosions' smoke got into everything so that people smelled really bad): millions of exploding bloggers whose final terrifying vision at the convention was a turbaned terrorist screaming,
"KOS-BUD!!!"