I hate to be a doomsayer here, but I think the lolcow that is Chris has pretty much been milked until its udders are bereft at this stage. He's just become too authentically dysfunctional to laugh at, too much of a human train wreck to inspire anything other than pity and bouts of depression by proxy. In all honesty, the poor fucker's probably going to die soon, and when that happens there will no doubt be the usual flood of white knights sperging about how he was killed by the trolls, how he was bullied to an early grave and how things could have worked out differently if only someone in an appropriate position of authority or trust had done such-and-such a thing differently. All very honourable, but Chris's life really has imitated his art. Just as he thinks his abysmal Sonic / Pikachu mash-up is a true original, he considers himself a special little snowflake deserving of whatever demented desires pop up in his scrambled noggin, up to and including a gift-wrapped girlfriend under the Christmas tree. Just as he considers his Sonichu comics to be works of art beyond reproach or even improvement, he considers himself some kind of perfect human being who has every right to look down on us mere mortals for we have not put our genius into our lives in the same way he has. (Remember his "you WISH you were ME" outburst?)
If there is an afterlife, I can only hope Bob Chandler has achieved some measure of inner peace and is enjoying a long, well-earned rest from the absolute bugfuck insanity that marred his last decades. So many wrong turnings, and marrying a drunken narcissistic bar skank who honestly believes she's descended from 'high Tudor nobility' was just the starter course. I honestly wouldn't have wished a son like Chris on my worst enemy.
Bob was clearly an intelligent and creative man. He had patents, for God's sake. Yet one false move and he ended up stranded in a marriage from hell with a son who combined a sulky, entitled, autism-scrambled non-personality with an explosive temper. A son whose cowardice and absence of physical fitness is all that keeps him from being a horrible bully. A son whose moments of blind, psychopathic rage serve only as tiny, shit-smeared windows of happiness in a life which is otherwise just a sad, lonely fugue state, where no lessons have been learned from years of stupidity, humiliation, egocentric waffle, self-absorbed ignorance and impotent rage. A son who doesn't even know the real reason for his frustration in life, and who lacks the self-awareness to understand that he's just a sad, broken toy that nobody wants to play with, but who has been led to believe that he is 'special' in an attempt to stop him crying as a child.
If Chris was a dog, Bob probably would have taken him into the back garden and pulled the trigger, bringing its suffering and misery to an end, but Chris wasn't a dog, he was Bob's son, and Bob is from the generation that firmly believes that you can't choose your family is in this world. Bob could only watch helplessly through his fingers as Chris hurt more and more people, fell for increasingly elaborate hoaxes and danced to the discordant tunes of the trolls. All Bob could do was offer hackneyed phrases like 'he's a high-functioning autistic' to the vampires of grief and suffering as Chris masturbated in the kitchen, farted on a chocolate cake and posted pictures of himself online wearing his mother's underwear.
Bob had one last shot at producing a worthy son and heir, but he planted all his care and happiness in stony ground, and predictably nothing grew but weeds. Chris came out of Barb broken and stayed broken. I'm just glad Bob isn't around to witness Chris's final form, whatever horrible thing that may be.
