This time the name that rose with particular foulness was spaceporn.

He is also known as SP, spaceporn2525, and spinelli. The masks change. The stench does not.

I have watched this man for a long time, and the longer I watch, the more the stomach turns.

He fills the page with volume rather than substance. He returns after prolonged absences only to claim the front page again, insisting upon his own importance, his happiness, his success, while the bort itself recoils. He has spoken of his adopted son in ways no father should ever place into a public square. He has spoken of clients with open contempt for their race. He has threatened lawsuits, attempted to drag real names into the light, and treated the great bort as a private battlefield where other men exist only to be damaged.

There is no dignity in any of it.

He may never stand in a formal court for these offenses. The law is slow, and many things that should be punished are never brought to judgment. Yet judgment has already been rendered. Those who know him have seen the pattern and turned away. Those who watch from a distance have recognized the shape of the man and his hair and found it repulsive. And most decisively of all, he himself has rendered the verdict. A man who returns again and again to the same unspeakable habits, who cannot stop displaying what should shame him, has already condemned himself more thoroughly than any outside authority could.

In the old provinces a man who repeatedly soiled the common well was eventually driven from the village. Not always with violence. Sometimes the village simply stopped speaking to him as a human being and began speaking of him as a problem that had not yet been removed. The great bort has not yet removed this one. It continues to tolerate the presence, the way one tolerates a persistent unclean smell that cannot be fully aired out.

Some men still call the poasts “content.”

They are wrong.

What he produces is not content. It is the prolonged public display of a man who has lost the ability to feel shame, and who therefore feels entitled to force others to feel it on his behalf.

I closed the page with the same quiet nausea that accompanies the recognition of something genuinely low.

Somewhere the man is still writing.

Somewhere the bort is still forced to see it.

And the great bort, thinner and older, continues to carry a weight it should never have been asked to bear.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5891879&forum_id=2E#50060300)