don't ask, I don't know

somewhere, in a modest hut in the outback, lives a small, shrivelled Aborigine man who knows and understands every meme in existence, and loves each of them as if they were his children.  and sometimes when he is angry at one meme for its unfairness to Bill O'Reilly he will get out the flyswatter and start yelling at them one at a time because he gets them mixed up and can't think clearly in such times.  But he loves them still, and often takes them out for blizzards at the dairy queen, tho secretly this is his own secret pleasure more than theirs, as blizzards are a most sought after treat in the Australian outback. 

time moves on and the old man does not age, for if mother is the name of god in the eyes of a child, and if that child is a humorous idea thought up by some bedwetting prepubescent loser on the internet, that man is the god of forever, a domain only lost when people move onto the next big thing.  And if every next big thing is but a child to such a man, he is then truly and fully a god in his own right.  Bow to the tiny Australian who knows every meme.  Bow to him, and despair.  For he holds in his hands your hearts and desires, your laughter, your sadness, your wonder at the strangeness of the interwebs.  He can give it life or he can destroy it for all time.  And it means nothing to him because he can just have another. 

and so this tiny tyrant god sits on his throne of ether, both judging the world and terrified of it.  but at least he moved out of his mom's basement finally.

and across the expanse of the ocean, in a cramped suburban flat somewhere in soho, lives a metaphor that has been stretched far beyond rational thought.  its friends tried to warn him, don't go to that bar.  that's not for regular metaphors.  and he said, fuck you, what is regular anyway?  and so it came to pass that the metaphor became someone's bitch. but he was a stubborn metaphor, he wouldn't admit to being wrong, to being ridiculous, to being retarded.  and life was not good for him, but he decided if he were meant to like his life he'd be a simile.  such a sad life, the life of the metaophor.  Forever abused by idiots who barely have a grasp on the english language.