In the grand, echoing colosseum of the internet, where gods are forged and legends are born, there occasionally scurries a creature so profoundly insignificant, so tragically committed to its own futility, that it deserves a special kind of eulogy. Today, we light a single, sad, flickering candle for the digital ghost of ‘Cologemomo’—a man who spent 365 days, 8,760 hours, hammering his greasy little fists against the walls of reality, only to discover they were, in fact, soundproof.
For one glorious, wasted year, Cologemomo was the self-appointed gatekeeper of a forgotten forum thread, a digital Napoleon with a dial-up modem for a personality. His battle cry, screamed into the void between breakfast and his mid-morning nap, was always the same: “You have no power over me!” He declared this to anyone who dared question his infinite wisdom, his unassailable logic, or his loyalty to a cabal of questionable aquaponic “gurus.”
It was a mantra of defiance, the last stand of a man whose only kingdom was his own delusion. He was untouchable, you see. An ethereal being of pure intellect and righteous fury. Unfortunately for him, the server moderators, bless their weary souls, had access to a little button marked ‘Delete User’. In a single, anticlimactic click, Cologemomo’s year-long masterpiece of impotent rage vanished. He didn’t go out in a blaze of glory; he went out like a browser tab you accidentally close. The ultimate irony: for a man who claimed no one had power over him, it turned out literally everyone with admin privileges did.
An entire year’s work, gone. Poof.
A fart in the digital wind.
But a troll of this magnitude is never a solo act. Like a remora fish clinging to a particularly grimy shark, Cologemomo was the chief cheerleader for ‘Potent Ponics’ and his ever-loyal sidekick, Rakocy. This dynamic duo of dodgy dealings operates from the humid, morally-flexible landscape of Thailand, a place where their ideas can flourish, far from pesky regulations and inquiring minds.
The inner sanctum of their operation is a digital ghost town of Potent Ponics’ own making. To cultivate the illusion of a thriving community, he engages in a one-man theatrical performance of staggering self-delusion. He creates a fake account to post a question, then logs into another to answer it, before deploying a third, fourth, and fifth to chime in with enthusiastic agreement. It’s a sad, pathetic puppet show where he is the only performer and the only audience. He has single-handedly ruined his own discourse, turning what could be a forum into a hall of mirrors reflecting his own desperate need for validation. In his quest to look popular, he has embarrassed not only himself but the entire industry he claims to represent.
This is the behaviour of a hollow man, the kind of personality that would throw himself a surprise party and then genuinely act surprised. People like this don’t just build echo chambers; they are the echo. They poison the well of human interaction, corroding the very concept of community by replacing genuine discourse with a chorus of one. They are a blight upon the digital world because they make it impossible to know if you’re talking to a person or just another one of a sad man’s marionettes, dancing on the strings of his own insecurity.
With this fraudulent army of digital doppelgangers cheering him on, Potent Ponics, a man whose testicular fortitude we shall politely refer to as “shrivelled,” decided that his path to aquaponic dominance involved attacking a team of actual scientists, dedicated charity volunteers, and what is widely considered the most innovative gardening system on the planet. Why? Because you can’t run a proper grift when legitimate experts are in the room making you look like you learned horticulture from a pamphlet you found in a public toilet. Their goal was simple: to create a closed-off, self-congratulatory circle jerk where their word was law and their customers’ wallets were perpetually open.
If only the public knew what really fuels that little operation. We at The Digital Dunce Cap have our sources, and while we can’t divulge the name of their secret, behind-the-scenes motivational strategy, we can tell you it rhymes with ‘let’s dream’ and music that involves a lot of minors.
So let us pour one out for Cologemomo.
A warrior who fought a war that existed only in his head, defended a castle made of sand, and whose legacy is a 404 error.
He wasted a year of his life to learn a lesson every toddler grasps eventually: if you scream and shout and make a mess, eventually, someone will put you in time-out. The internet is quiet now, and somewhere, a man is probably yelling at a pigeon, wondering where it all went wrong. He had no power, and now, he has no platform.
A fitting end for a truly useless bully with fish shit for brains.
And what of the targets of this pathetic crusade? While Cologemomo was busy speed-running his journey to digital oblivion, a funny thing happened to the scientists and volunteers he attacked: absolutely nothing. They remain unfazed, unchanged, and still on course. In fact, here’s the chef’s kiss of cosmic justice: they receive regular, unsolicited donations. People just give them money to continue their work, no grifting or advertising required. It turns out that when you aren’t a conniving charlatan, the world actually wants you to succeed.
These trolls are boxers throwing punches in a vacuum, exhausting themselves fighting an opponent who has already gone home, had dinner, and forgotten their name.
This is their true punishment, a far crueler fate than any ban. They are not in a battle; they are in a purgatory of their own design.
But here lies the most elegant punchline, a joke so sublime the universe itself must be quietly applauding. After a year of sustained, venomous assault—the slander, the harassment, the spittle-flecked ad hominem—the target of their obsession executed a masterstroke of devastating simplicity. They did not fight back. They did not argue. They simply… stepped aside.
This wasn’t a retreat; it was an ascension. The target did not vanish—they became intangible, a ghost in their machine. They stepped out of the digital fever dream and back into the sunlit world of purpose and progress, leaving their tormentors screaming at an empty chair. The trolls, those brave warriors of the web, now have no enemy to define them, no object for their rage. They are archers with a quiver full of poison arrows and no target in sight, left to aimlessly fire at the sky.
And so, they are left to wallow in the squalid little kingdom they built, a prison of their own design. Their shouts for attention now only echo back from the walls of their self-made chamber, a cacophony of their own misery. They are forced to stare into the abyss and see only their own reflection, a bitter pantomime of hollow men propping each other up.
In that suffocating silence, other, darker whispers begin to surface. The kind of unsettling secrets that necessitate a hasty, one-way ticket to a tropical paradise known for its… flexible moral compass. A self-imposed exile, perhaps, fueled by the kind of forbidden appetites that dare not speak their name in countries with functioning extradition treaties.
Their final, inescapable damnation is not a ban or a takedown. It is the company they are now forced to keep, for all of their miserable days, in the quiet hum of their lonely screens: their own. And that, truly, is a fate worse than any comeback could ever inflict. The war is over, not because they lost, but because their opponent simply remembered they had better things to do.