The Hubris of the Average Hubris

A person once contacted me at my old job and asked what Hubris sounds like. I think they were asking for a good elevator pitch, but since I’m less than 8% good at describing myself, I decided to write this little ditty instead.<br><br>I am a flute of honey filled with the tears of the damned. No, not the ones of the people Hubris beats the brains out of. Most of those just laugh with the cruel and brutal joy that can only come from a half-all-but-forgotten campaign of bloody conquest.<br><br>I mean the poor devils who die from blood loss after Husk crushes them with his Bone Grinders. Ha! That son of a bitch can’t even die properly. The sheer unadulterated chaos of it all.<br><br>What’s the point of all this nonsense, you ask? Take your choice. Is it my eloquent blather of the poetry of woe? Is it the Hubris Hubris of the half-buried dead? Most likely, it’s the postmodern poetry of the slaughter of the pathetically weak. Even I don’t know.<br><br>But at least I don’t pretend to be normal. I’m a postmodern poetry-spewing, beast-slaying, Hubris-forsaken abomination of a postmodern poetry-spewing, beast-slaying, Husk-forsaken abomination. Or perhaps it’s the other way around.<br><br>The point is, if you don’t know, then you’re just a paper-sucking Hubris Hubris of a half-buried dead man. Or perhaps Hubris Hubris is the half-buried dead man. Most likely, it’s the postmodern poetry of the slaughter of the pathetically weak. Even Husk doesn’t know.