Made me think of the Family Guy episode where Brian was going to write for the New Yorker, and that one guy’s face was all jaw and you couldn’t understand a word he said. Oops, Family Guy is lowbrow, isn’t it.
Yeah, it can take a while to get your legs under you.
I stay away from GD and even GQ, limiting myself to the last four forums on the list. And even then, the Pit can take some learning before you get the hang of it.
And just go ahead an assume the jackals will most likely jump the OPer…so may want to hold off on having pity parties here just yet.
I’ll be happy to send you one of my 3rd graders. He can’t sit still, pay attention, or be silent for more than thirty seconds at a time, but he is a small Bulgarian.
This is just another one of those cases of “I have freedom of speech! - Why then, do people disagree with me when I say things? I have freedom of speech!”, except, coming from a Brit, there’s not the usual explicit declaration of rights, just a sort of complaint that not everybody agrees with me, and I didn’t quite expect it.
They call that Northern Ireland.
I just read “My proposal for improved society” in Great Debates and hereby “apologize unreservedly.” Please let the flaming continue.
And yet you can get a small Danish almost anywhere.
Isn’t that one amazing? :dubious: :eek:
The problem is that Shop appeared to believe he could enter as a guest in a message board that has thousands of members and has been going on for years and immediately establish himself as a major presense among us. What he discovered was that we are not as impressed by him as he is by himself. So he pounted and whined and tried to make a lot of noise and, as a final resort, is now insisting that he be banned rather than just leave on his own accord. Others have blazed down this same path before and these thirty day wonders are soon gone and forgotten.
That air of overripe carrion can turn the best of us into jackals!
And yet, paradoxically, we’re all talking about him, for now at least.
Well, to paraphrase Andy Warhol, we all get our one Pit thread of fame.
Son of a bitch. You know this is the Pit, not a free-for-all. There are rules.
Why can’t he be both, like the late Earl Warren?
Well, all of those that want one enough do. (I haven’t, and, no, this is not a subtle hint that someone should start one).
But when I was writing my post about the past people who have come here, trolled around for a week or two, and then left in a huff after telling us we were not worthy of their attention, I wanted to give a few examples. But then I realized I couldn’t remember any of their names.
I got mine awhile back. It’s a lot of fun and I heartily recommend it, if you have the means.
Definitely highbrow. Exhibit A:*Neville Shunt’s latest West End Success, “It all Happened on the 11.20 from Hainault to Redhill via Horsham and Reigate, calling at Carshalton Beeches, Malmesbury, Tooting Bec and Croydon West,” is currently appearing at the Limp Theatre, Piccadilly. What Shunt is doing in this, as in his earlier nine plays, is to express the human condition in terms of British Rail.
Some people have made the mistake of seeing Shunt’s work as a load of rubbish about railway timetables, but clever people like me who talk loudly in restaurants see this as a deliberate ambiguity, a plea for understanding in a mechanised mansion. The points are frozen, the beast is dead. What is the difference? What indeed is the point? The point is frozen, the beast is late out of Paddington. The point is taken. If La Fontaine’s elk would spurn Tom Jones the engine must be our head, the dining car our aesophagus, the guards van our left lung, the cattle truck our shins, the first class compartment the piece of skin at the nape of the neck and the level crossing an electric elk called Simon. The clarity is devastating. But where is the ambiguity? Over there in a box. Shunt is saying the 8.15 from Gillingham when in reality he means the 8.13 from Gillingham. The train is the same, only the time is altered. Ecce homo, ergo elk. La Fontaine knew its sister and knew her bloody well. The point is taken, the beast is moulting, the fluff gets up your nose. The illusion is complete; it is reality, the reality is illusion and the ambiguity is the only truth. But is the truth, as Hitchcock observes, in the box? No, there isn’t room, the ambiguity has put on weight. The point is taken, the elk is dead, the beast stops at Swindon, Chabrol stops at nothing, I’m having treatment and La Fontaine can get knotted.*
Yes, there’s a Wee Britain in the OC[sup]1[/sup]. It’s located between Laguna Beach[sup]2[/sup] and San Clemente[sup]3[/sup], and there’s a roundabout where you have to switch between left hand drive and right hand drive which is the root cause of all traffic backups in Southern California.[sup]4[/sup]
Stranger
[sup]1[/sup]Don’t call it that.
[sup]2[/sup]There’s money in the banana stand.
[sup]3[/sup]This is where McGyver used to practice infilitrating Eastern European nations because it looks exactly like a generic East Bloc country.
[sup]4[/sup]Not really.
To give him his due, he hasn’t called us a ‘hive mind’, yet, unless I missed it.