On receiving anonymous comments.

Well, I’ve been getting anonymous hatemail on LJ again. I periodically consider turning on IP logging, but you know I’m so fascinated by the endless variety of humanity that I never get around to it – after all, anonymous illiterates wouldn’t post to me if I did turn it on, and they’re just as interesting as anybody else. I suppose I regard anonymous posters in the same light as the HG Wells’ Martians regarded general humanity: ”… watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than theirs; …they were being scrutinised and studied, perhaps as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water….”
Oh, if you’re wondering what I’m referring to, it’s here.

I often wonder why people don’t put their names to what they write. I mean, it’s not like they say any worse to me than ukmonty or puddingcat or rosamicula do on a daily basis, and they’re brave enough to put their comments to my face, so why not others? I mean, these faceless posters - do their mothers know how they’re spending their evenings? Maybe they do…

The scene: A squalid terraced house, filled with chintz, chipboard furniture and a flight of plaster ducks up one wall. The air is filled with the scent of rancid chip-fat, week old socks, and Regal King Size. Ian (Internet Anonymous Numpty) has come home with big news for his parents)
Ian: “Mam, mam! I’ve something to tell you. I made my first abusive anonymous internet post today!”
Mother: “Did you son? Oh, son. We’re so proud. Your father and me always hoped you’d grow up to do something like that. (Shouts) Did you hear that Gerald?”
Father (Appears at the top of the stairs. He’s a fat, balding little man with a moustache, dressed in a string vest) “What is it Mabel? I was telling someone in Arizona that they’re a Suxxor LusR from an unidentifiable mail client.”
Mother: “It’s our Ian He called someone names anonymously on the internet today.”
Father: (Comes downstairs. It may be seen that he’s flushed and sweating, and his palms are sticky) “Son. I’m right proud of you. Ever since great uncle Egbert used Marconis telegraph to tell someone in New York they were a prat more than a hundred years ago, random, anonymous abuse has been a proud tradition in our family. I’m glad you’re carrying it on. I hope one day you’ll have a son of your own…”
Mother: “He’ll have to get a girlfriend first.”
Father: “Plenty of time for that, Mabel. Why, we didn’t start courting until I was forty-three and mother let me out of the house unaccompanied for the first time.”

I suppose this is what happens in the home lives of these people. I’m glad I was raised with different expectations of success, is all I’m saying.