The Man in the Internet

After Teddy Roosevelt

It is the critic who counts; the man who sits on his ass to point out how the strong man stumbles, and how someone who did his best, and ended up doing alright, actually fucked up completely. The credit does not belong to the man who is actually in the arena, but the man whose keyboard is clogged with mold from typing harsh words into comment sections; who strives valiantly to keep up with the deeds of others so his attacks on their inadequacy remain topical and relevant, because since there is no effort without error and shortcoming, it is best to do nothing at all; who gets unfriended, but shares and comments on posts from popular pages to acquire new adds; who gets blocked, but creates new accounts; who stands at an angle pissing into the corner urinal, looking back over his shoulder at those with their heads held high and dicks all the way out, regardless of their size; who knows the higher the achievement, the greater the enthusiasm of tearing it down; the great devotion to finding as many people to hurt and ways to hurt them as there are people who try to do good and ways they try to do it; who spends himself shitting on a worthy cause; who at the best knows only the triumph of pointing out flaws, since all but he possess them; and who at the worst, when he fails, at least fails while doing nothing, so his own failures cannot be exposed; so that his place shall always be with those cold and timid souls who, standing for nothing but words, know the permanent victory of hating, and the permanent defeat of never doing anything.