Let us not compare sources of inspiration.

Until two weeks ago, Lance Armstrong’s arousing victory over testicular malignancy was the most acceded ‘hero’s journey’ of our time. The grace with which he vanquished billions of pudenda-attacking metastasizers captivated our collective psyche, and defined him as the world’s apotheosis of hope (that is, until the harlequin Obama copyrighted the term).

Lance even went on to reproduce! With multiple women! What glorious sperm he must have! Four-time Tour de Uterine Canal champions! His singular nut must possess at once the perseverance of Prometheus’ flame and the beefiness of Thor’s hammer!

However, the Western world has found a new lodestar of hope. One that goes beyond the triviality of colonizing cells or shattered colored-glass ceilings. As you are likely aware, an FTVS founder recently broke the most vital of appendages while defending himself from an envy-fueled physical attack. Fame – to which Michael Jackson, JFK, Anna Nicole Smith, that Nirvana guy, and now Bob Albatross are testament – is not without its consequences.

The world can cease its heaving sobs over Farrah’s fall to that devilish butt cancer ambush, and redirect its gaze to this more recent, more compelling calamity.

A lesser man might relinquish all hope and would likely take his own life, or perhaps embark on a Columbine-like pursuit, were he to face such a profound injury. Amen, our fearless padre is not a lesser man. Indeed, on several occasions his physical prowess has been likened to Stephen Hawking’s, as has his mental fortitude been compared to that of Steve McNair. Or perhaps vice versa.

As the heroic FTVS founder refuses to abandon his, nay, the world’s dream of seeing him one day again pound the ~ and q keys on his keyboard, 6 billion humans hold their breath and offer their succor to Mr. Albatross.

Like the long roads of the Tour de France, the keyboard is a wild beast that is nary tamed. As a champion of qwerty maneuvering, Bob Albatross refuses to submit to the deafening odds he presently faces – and as he stares into, or rather stirs the the abyss with his umbrageous pinky, the abyss wets its bed to a nightmare of its bad uncle.

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