Just before the department of public works arrived to repair the broken water main. They said they'd never seen a chainsaw accident of that magnitude before.

I was floating around my living room on a large inflatable duck, smoking a clove and clutching an ice-cold bottle of Corona to my pale and hairless chest, when Bart popped in for a visit. You might remember Bart, as I've mentioned him before. We call him "Bart the Smart" 'round my place, for reasons that will quickly become apparent.

"Holy Mother Theresa Great Virgin Step-Niece of Buddha on a Freakin' Pogo Stick, where'd all the water come from?!?" was his first observation.

I showed him my middle finger and invited him to sit down. He jumped on a $3,000 leather love seat as it floated past, and launched into one of his patented Bart Rants.

"These damn Internet Smarks!" he began.

Right there, I knew I'd have to kill him.

I didn't know when or how, but I knew it was coming. Still, I slipped my scuba goggles up to my forehead, took a long drag, and motioned for him to continue.

"...all they do is bitch. All the time. They're never happy. Why can't they just shut up and enjoy Wrestling?", he said.

I pondered this a moment.

"Wait a second," I replied. "Have you considered that maybe, just MAYBE that they're not really 'bitching'? That maybe to them, it's called 'discussing'? I mean, where's the law that says I have to nod like a drooling idiot, saying nothing but 'gee, weren't Smackdown great this week' when discussing wrestling online?"

"No no no", he said. "I'm talking about people that complain about Benoit being held down, or Triple H never jobbing, when in fact neither statements are true."

I took sip of Corona and contemplated.

"Bart", I began, "Don't take this the wrong way, but you're a fuckin' idiot.".

He looked stunned a moment, then tried to speak, but I pointed a speargun in his direction and motioned for him to stay silent.

"No, really. You're an idiot. A complete and total Tool. You're a wart on the rectum of society, and I'm going to have to kill you. But before I do, let me point out a few things, you suppurating pimple."

"First: Not all Internet wrestling fans are imbeciles. YOU'RE an imbecile, and thus you're trying to excuse your own stupidity by blaming the rest of us for your faults."

"Second, I don't see a single consensus among Internet fans regarding ANYTHING, certainly not regarding Benoit or Triple H. You'll find Internet fans that love them, hate them, and everything in between. Yet you, in your pathetic attempt to sound witty, make up theses idiotic over-generalizations and then smirk down your nose at anyone that has the guts to point out how full of crap you are."

He started to protest, so I shot him through the throat with the speargun, pinning his twitching corpse to my 52 inch Sony television. I continued my speech, even though I knew he couldn't hear me.

"Third, dung breath, you're one of THOSE. You know, a hypocritical snob. It's not enough that you're part of a group that you consider to be nothing but spoiled, elitist complainers, you've had to form your own microgroup of even MORE spoiled, MORE elitist complainers! I mean, think about Bart: You sit around bitching and complaining about Internet fans because, get this, you think THEY sit around bitching and complaining too much!"

I shook my head in disbelief, and rubbed some mustard onto my thighs in slow, languorous circles.

"Look," I sighed. "Wrestling is a hobby for me, so I follow it, dissect it, and occasionally post critical commentary. Internet Smarts are a hobby for YOU, so you study us, quote us, and then bitch and whine about us. The only difference is that I'm not a hypocrite about it, and you are. So how about this: instead of telling ME that I should just shut up and enjoy wrestling, why don't YOU just shut up and enjoy the Internet?"

Bart twitched. I took this to be a sign of agreement. I was almost sad I'd killed him.