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 We are the soldiers at the satirical Alamo who refused to yield to an onslaught of wily spics and political correctness (see what we did… never mind).

The seeds of our revolution were sown when a cat named “Fruits” moseyed into our cherished corner of the e-sandbox, meticulously dug an e-hole, and delivered an e-turd so foul, God surely wept. This final blasphemous act was the cherry on the fuck-you pie, a cruel dish served cold, forcing ye faithful into the kind of existential introspection usually reserved for moments after awaking next someone WAAAAAAAY below your station.

It was like when George Allen called some dot-head “Macaca” or when Fuzzy Zoeller put in his order the ‘98 Master’s dinner (lets face it, the fried chicken and watermelon line usually kills), a death knell had been rung, a shitastical high water mark had been reached, and the proverbial Titanic of Fun had run afoul with a colossal iceberg of douche.

It. Was. Over.

So, we gathered and discussed the state of our failing Union. A consensus was reached; it was indeed time to build an Ark, load it with the pure and retarded, and get the fuck out of Dodge before the seas of God’s wrath swelled to devour all who’d abandoned any semblance of edginess so as to serve something more palpable to the tasteless masses.

So here we are, floating aimlessly in the vast ocean of cyberspace…uncertain of what the future may hold for us. What is certain is that we’ve left that destiny to the faith of our own hands…and in doing so are truly free.