Arnold Winkelried is a Nazi Bastard

At least according to Coldfire, who came up with the idea for this thread.

[sub]C’mon. You didn’t seriously thing no one would actually do this, did you?

That bastard stole my shoe polish. I want reparations!

[sub]Pssst…it’s been done before. And it caused a shit storm royale in the process.[/sub]

Mea culpa. My sincere apologies to both Coldfire and Arnold Winkleried. I meant no harm. It was intended as a joke, but I see it was in poor taste. I realize moderating this board is a difficult task, and would not want to make that job any more difficult. Would a mod please close this?

Heh. I suppose you’re sitting there, sweating all over, thinking “Fuck! What did I do?? Yikes! I didn’t know about that other link. Eek! Are they gonna ban me now?”. Or, maybe not. I dunno.

The link referenced happened under significantly different circumstances. Let’s just say I am not mad at you for opening this thread.

You will, however, answer to mr Winkelried, who is pouring his morning coffee as we speak.

Close this thread? Not before Arnold gets his say. :smiley:

Ooh, that’s cruel.

I like it.

I suppose I was asking for this. Ok, fire away.

That Coldfire

He’s damn good

and HUNG

<Sets up a lawnchair, passes a bottle of booze around to all present>

Don’t mind me, I’m just here for the show.

The final SDMB staff initiation! How well can Arnold Winkelried flame? Let us count the ways…

As Arnold gazes over the expectant crowd pulled up in their lawn chairs, sipping expensive yet tasteful alcoholic drinks under their pink parasols, he reflects once again the burden that is placed upon persons in prominent positions. The honour of the SDMB staff must be upheld. This can be no ordinary insult. The very hair on the offender’s vacuous head must be burnt down to a crisp. A suckling pig turning on a roast would consider himself lucky in comparison. The affront will extend forward and backward in time, impugning the character of all ancestors and descendants, and yet extend sidewise to equally offend the member(s) of any societal strata (or person in this case one should use the term sub-strata) that could remotely come into Number Six’s limited circle of personal connections. All posters who read it will be held in timorous awe, and for an appreciable amount of time only whispers will be heard through the halls of our community, as members speak in hushed tones of the wrath that shook the very virtual foundations of our meeting place. Links to this thread will be posted in usenet groups throughout the known world, and sullen adolescents, professional mischief-makers, crusty old codgers, embittered hackers, any netizen who has ever attempted a put-down, cutting remark, jab or dig, will acknowledge that they have met a true master. The charred and scattered remnants of the dignity of the impertinent Number Six will server forever as a warning sign to those whose feeble attempts to nip at the heels of a moderator will sometimes cause us to pause and negligently crush the reprobate with a touch of our finger.

Suffice with the preparations! you cry. Please commence with the abuse! Your clarifications and explanations, entertaining and witty though they may be, but make us thirst for the meat of your argument. Patience, I reply. Rome was not built in a day. As a matter of fact, it took almost 3000 years to bring this small village on the edge of the Tiber, founded by the she-wolf’s sucklings, to the vast metropolis that we know today. When a traveler wanders through the remnants of the Flavian Amphitheatre, pauses to consider his own mortality in the catacombs, or ponders the ephemeral nature of fame and fortune whilst gazing upon the ruins of the baths of Septimus Severus, does she also acknowledge the efforts of the millions who laboured for so long to produce this city that she sees before her? One would hope that in her breast stirs admiration and compassion for the immeasurable toil and arduous efforts of the artists, artisans, and workmen, even as their names have long been relegated to the dustbin of history.

But I digress. Please prepare yourself for the next post. Sensitive souls should refrain from scrolling any further. Children and men and women of the cloth should immediately leave this thread. You are about to witness language so withering, a smear so scathing, that it will forever be imprinted in your memory. My very pen trembles at the thought, yet the honour of the Winkelrieds must be defended. It is my duty to myself, my colleagues, and all men and women of good will, that the caster of such an unmitigated slur should be thoroughly chastised. Some might say “it is better to turn the other cheek”, but unchecked gall will only lead to worst offenses against good taste and etiquette, and eventually the hapless Number Six might descend to the horrors of rude gestures, strange grimaces, screaming at idiotic television “celebrities” and drivers of motor vehicles, and other abhorrent behaviours. This must be stopped, for the sake of all of humanity.

(This will be your last caveat, your final chance to save yourself from words so rude, so foul, that the soul shudders at the thought, and the angels in heaven falter for a second as they pluck their harps. You have been forewarned.)

[Edited by Arnold Winkelried on 08-09-2001 at 12:23 PM]

Number Six: You, sir, are no gentleman.

Arnold Winkelried waits patiently for the crowd of dopers to show up, holding aloft their “10.0” score signs, and giving him an enthusiastic thumbs up. Women and men alike fervently shed their undergarments and fling them at him, and the applause causes the people in message boards across the web to glance up in surprise.

Uhhh, does that mean I get my shoe polish back or not?

That was it?

That was the response?

I don’t get back the minutes I spent reading the warning. I’ve lost that part of my life forever. (Well, okay, maybe I should’ve just skipped it).

You know, if that was from a mere mortal poster, that’d be a 2, maybe a 2.5. But, seeing as it’s from a moderator, well, of course it’s an incisive and acidic put-down that has Wilde turning green with envy (as opposed to green with rot) in his grave.

I feel unfulfilled, cheated, like when I sent away for Sea monkey’s and they didn’t look at all like the ad.

So that’s why people have their gall bladders removed.

Jester, tempted to spew an all-to familiar line from “Billy Madison”, realizes who he is about to do it to and stops himself at the last moment. Now desperate to choose a response to the flame that will not get him banned, Jester knows that his words must be just right, lest he be shunned by the SDMB forever.

Uhmmmmm…errrrrrr…that was…very…uhmm… very…well, it was…uhh…a flame…[sub]at least I think it was[/sub]…but it was a…errrrrrr…

Look over there!

While everyone else is distracted by his clever diversion, Jester heads for the proverbial hills, leaving his lawn chair and, sadly, his booze, behind.

Well! I ask you, is that fair? All I did was accuse him of being a narrow-minded, genocidal, fascist, bigot without any evidence or provocation, and he has the gall to say I’m not a gentleman? Did you treat Jack Dean Taylor like this? I don’t think I should have to put up with such abuse.

Aw, come on Jester! I was just commin’ over to set up my chair next to yours. Spew the line and get it over with.