Continuing the recreation of 2008, I discovered that this dedication to one of EE's anniversaries was way back then as well. Here's the original with comments that are better than the actual post.
And the post copied to 2010:
Ah, I remember it like yesterday. I was browsing along and umm uhhh somehow I uhhh ended up reading EE's blog. But I don't remember why. Maybe it was uhhh Miss Snark or something? Maybe ummm PubRants. And uhhh.
Well, I don't remember yesterday very well either. So I'll just make something up about my first week on EE's blog, which seems to have been some time in June of 2006.
A handsome young man sits at a desk; papers sprawl around him. He has been working for many hours but his strength and vitality are such that he is as energetic as any a man can be. He fiddles with a pen for a moment and looks at a mass of equations on the notepad in front of him.
"Just about there," he thinks to himself. "I've completed the proofs of each sub-module and the only thing left is to demonstrate the necessary convergence of the two systems into a single equation. And then the world will have it's Theory of Everything. When it's published I should finally obtain that position so I can help feed my family."
He stretches his arms up towards the sky.
"Just a quick breather and then it's off to implement the algorithm, collapsing the systems. Hm. What's this? Evileditor.blogspot.com."
He scans the page without emotion.
Then a corner of the mouth turns. "Heh. AFTER GOYA."
Then a smile. "Brutal eunuchs. Ha ha."
He sips his hot tea and reads further. Suddenly, he spews his tea all over the computer. "Vigilante sorcerors! OMG! That's too much! Oh crap, my ink is running on the proof. Well, that's alright. I know what it said. I'll just umm fix this bit here and- What's this? I can submit a continuation myself? Oooh, ooh. People will laugh at me! With me, with me." Click, click. Type, type. "I'll still remember the final equation even after I submit a continuation. Or two. Or three. Wow, how many are on this site? I must submit something for every single one of them!"
That night Paca is laying in bed after correcting about half of his tea-splattered theory of everything. "Choose mine, choose mine. It's the funniest. I know it is. Please, please."
The next day.
"F-ing Ril. What the hell, EE?! Clearly my clever twist in which the romance heroine is truly a brain-dead zombie is better. That's it. I'll try again." Paca types frantically into the keyboard.
When he goes home that night, his beautiful, hard-working wife asks, "honey, how's the development of the algorithm going?"
"What? Oh, yeah, going well. It'll converge. I'm sure it will. And then he'll choose mine."
"Someone will choose your what?" Paca doesn't answer, but his wife listens to him mumbling something about zombie deathfish all night long. Of course, aren't these academics always coming up with weird names for their ideas?
"F-ing Ril! Yeah, so technically I would guess that this one from Ril is in fact, if you want to get into the details of it, actually funny, while mine was a contrived piece of garbage. Dammit!" Paca hurls paper from his desk and then falls onto the floor sobbing. "I'm a horrible writer! I'll never come up with anything funny! Oh, what will I do with my life? It's all been a waste. A waste. Oh god, in just two days this Evil Editor has exposed me as a fraud and a talentless two-bit... something. I can't even think of a way to curse myself creatively. I'm so pathetic."
At 6:30 that evening, there is a knock on the office door. Paca's wife opens it to find Paca sprawling with his pants half-way off, his head dipping over a pail of gin. It isn't clear if he's drinking it or about to vomit into it. She rushes to his side.
"Honey, Paca honey! What's wrong?!"
He mumbles something, but his tongue seems to be as effective as his sense of humor. He tries again. "I'm nussing."
"Nothing?" she asks.
"A human stale. A piece of filth. I've been teprending, te-te-pretending all my life."
"Not just wok. Work. My bean. My bean."
"I thought we agreed you wouldn't call it that anymore, and you know I don't mind how small-"
"No, no. My being. What I wiv for."
"Oh, the algorithm didn't work? It doesn't reliably converge like you were sure it would and you've wasted 5 years of effort?"
"Algowim? Don't need no fucking algowim. You're crazy. Yes, I think you crazy. What's an algowim? Algowim! Algowim!"
We can see Paca's wife composing herself, repeating innwardly, "it's just the alcohol talking. Don't let it get to me. At least it's not as bad as that time with the silly puddy and tacks."
"I could just die now," the drunk concludes. "Do you think I would die if I sat on my own head?"
"I think I would. Look." Paca starts contorting himself in an attempt to sit on himself. "Watch. I'm gonna be dead once I sit on my own head."
"Hey, at least you can still rhyme even when you're being an asshole. Don't have a fit. Just look at it-"
Paca pops up suddenly awake again. "That's it!!"
"Dying children! Now that's some funny stuff!"
She stares at him for a moment without speaking. "Maybe you should try the head-sitting thing again."
"No need!" He pops up from the floor, knocking the gin over. "I've got it! Take this, ril! Blogless! Little cute 'oala! Robin, you'll never flirt with EE again! You too, rhinothongbuttchurkodeldin! You'll never usurp my continuation position again!"
Paca is scanning over the divorce papers as he hits refresh on his computer screen. Refresh. Refresh.
Happy Anniversary, EE!!