Over-reactive Fists

"So what," some say, "that the internet is stuffed full of fools pretending to have understood a book which they in fact don't, just in order for them to show off? Why not just leave them to their lameness?"

Their questions come to me like a plague of apostrophies, black shapes burying my eyes under a darkness of the deepest existential despair. So what, indeed. Why the hours of research, I ask myself. Why all the googling. Why the reading and the rooting. Why the sweaty, sleepless nights, staring into an earth of ignorance through my laptop screen. Why the naming, and shaming, and blaming?

Other questions come too, buried here in the blackness, echoing around this lonely cave of correctness - of titular truth - that I occupy alone, all alone. Who chose I, Fist, as Unapologetic Master of the Mutant Apostrophe? Is it the Shade of Joyce that speaks through me? Or Madness - the ghost of his schitzo daughter - wrecking her revenge upon one the few literarti of this ignorance-infested world?

And, yet,

clutching a copy of the Koran, he said that "the law compels me to chop off the head of anyone who insults Allah and the prophet"

I find that I, Fist, am no deliverer of death, just like the apostrofisteds, and so spare them a link from this post, just this time, in an offering of peace.