micro, you old warhorse, you come marching in here like the chaplain of Cincinnati, giving me the business with that “Ya has a lot to learn” line. And you say it with such confidence, too, like Mrs. micro didn’t just remind you where you left your glasses five minutes earlier.
You talk about being the only non‑SEC guy like it’s a badge of honor. Meanwhile ribit is over there in Toadsuck, wearing a crown made out of Waffle House napkins, yelling at the Falcons, and Beldin is buried under so many swimsuit photos that if the IRS ever did audit him, the poor agent would need sunglasses and a cold shower before continuing. And Zimbler0? He’s sitting on his porch in Virginia waiting for the next dividend check like it’s Christmas morning.
But you? You’re the heart of the operation. The lone Yankee holding the Mason‑Dixon line with a Bible in one hand and a story about your high school football days in the other. You and ribit calling each other “brother” is beautiful, really. Two Marines, bonded for life… even if one of you thinks grits are a food group and the other thinks they’re a war crime.
I may not have been here long, but on the internet old posts last forever. I can still read! I know you’ve presided over funerals. That’s no small thing. It says a lot about the respect people have for you. But let’s be honest: if you ever forget your notes, you could just start quoting Genesis and nobody would blink. They’d say, “Yep, that’s micro. He’s on a roll today.”
So take it easy, old timer. You’ve earned the right to dish it out, and you’ve earned the right to get a little back. Besides, if I ever hit you too hard, ribit will just send mz ribit after me, and that woman scares me more than the Rapture.
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