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Lj-favicon.png Everything2 is like wikipedia, but older and more ghey; the average Everything2 article was last updated in 2000 and is crap. Because of this and the site's lapsed association with the OSDN, most of the content is a Zeitgeist of quasi-pseudo-intellectual asspie horseshit from the Web 1.0. Tosh used Everything2 actively throughout high school.

Nodes, Noders and ePenis

"Noders", through the art of "noding", write "nodes". "Nodes" are like Wikipedia articles, except they're required to be written from the point of view of a bitter college student who thinks Linux is much better than Windoze. Creative writing is most popular there, and by creative writing, we mean whiny diatribes about how attractive girls only date jerks, pointless essays about what the song "Freebird" means to the "noder", and epic-length sentimental garbage about boring shit that happened when the "noder" was 7.

Also, due to the geeky nature of Everything2, anyone with a vagina is quickly elevated to demi-god status. One of the highest-rated "writeups" for years was nothing more than the output from a female Everything2ianistocrat banging her breasts against the keyboard. [1]

To achieve peak gheyness, all "write-ups" are voted on, and "noders" earn experience points based on how trendy and/or simply laiden with cliches their writing is. So basically, it's a big RPG where "Noders" hope to ascend several utterly pointless levels, each one giving them more voting power.

Typical E2 Article

Taken from Tell me a story about being really alive (Yes, that is really the title)

Caution: Do not actually read it because it's really bad.

I wake up early even though it's Sunday, and I'm at my parents house, and in my own room, and they've already left for the day. It's probably the way the sun comes in and hits me across the legs, the way the room is still full of night chill but I'm cozy under heavy comforters, the way I can stretch and turn over and stretch again.

I pad to the bathroom, take a long shower under pounding water, God, I've missed this shower, steaming cleansing streaming water. On my face, my back, my hair; lather, rinse, repeat; lather, rinse, repeat. A towel, (two to be precise), warm from the radiator and clothes, clean from the dryer.

Breakfast, rustle something up in my mother's kitchen. I open the verticals and let the yellow sun pour in, the back porch and trees all brilliant with autumn. T'is warm, a coffee, eggs, toast. Coming home always makes me feel like an old-fashioned breakfast. The house creaks as I proceed to open every shade in the house, windows and blinds letting in both gold and cold. [OH JESUS CHRIST THIS IS BAD]

I have the car, I'm going to go somewhere, no way I'm staying inside on a glorious October day, crisp and clear and warm in the sunlight and chilled in the shade, blue and sky and brightness. Drive a little aimlessly, find myself at one of the state parks nearby, empty at 10:00 a.m. in Autumn.

I'm not dressed for this, climbing; in fact, I'm not really dressed for any outdoor activities, I only have a thin sweater and the wrong shoes but the rocks! and trees! and the air and the way the stream moves swift and clear near the hiking trail and oh! I'm off and moving.

I've climbed this trail once before, summers ago, with my brothers. It's less recognizable with leaves all over, when I get to the halfway mark I am breathing deep and heavy, filling my lungs. I stand on the rocky outcrop and take in the sight of my town, city, county spread out beneath me. Moments, really, then I feel the need to move up and on, stretching my legs to and scrabbling for handholds, I left the trail somewhere and I'm climbing up the side of the hill monkey-like.

I could fall and hurt myself, no one would know. I could get lost (but not really) and no one would know where I was, unless they traced the car left after sunset to my parents. I could reach the top of the world and share the triumph with myself, alone in clear sunlight and brilliance.

I do, and stand there breathing, nose and fingers red with exertion and cold, tingling with life and thrill and power and me. Just me.

I take my time going back down.

This one is taken from I am incapable of using urinals this one is even worse

Before we begin: Yes. I am a male, it is not a hardware problem.

I am incapable of using urinals. I will confess, I was never a great fan - For the vast majority of my life, I have eschewed the public urinal in favor of the privacy offered by a stall. I have never been much in favor of dropping trou (and undertrou) while standing around with other guys, some in a similar state of undress.

However. The case still stands: I have become physically incapable of using stand up urinals. I was standing at one, you see, forced by various circumstances beyond my control into it, and I could not piss. It can not be said that I didn't have to piss, for I certainly did. All the same, however, my bladder might have been as barren as the arid Sahara, my friends, the Sahara itself, for I could summon not a drop of shining golden liquid, let alone the powerful stream to which I am accustomed.

The theory, my theory, is as follows: I have, through years of conditioning in refusing to use urinals, rendered myself subconsciously unwilling, as well. Perhaps you have noticed, when you have to urinate, that it flows more freely if you lower your pants in front of a toilet than, say, your bed (note: do not try this at home)? The point is, if it is possible to condition oneself to more readily piss at a toilet than not, is not also possible to condition oneself to urinate less readily (or not at all, save in situations of desperation) when standing at a urinal? Yes, it is, I say. A thousand times, yes


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