Stop talking with morons online. And especially stop talking with said morons, hearing something moronic that they say, and then coming here and posting “Hey, a moron online just said this. What do you think?”
The answer is always the same: morons say and do moronic things. Stop talking with them.
When this fellow who’s a pal of my friend’s chum buys coffee at Starbucks, he only puts cream in it when the barista is black. I told him that this was racist but he insists that it’s not.
Do you agree that it’s racist? I think it is but I’m not sure if I should confront him again. What do you all think?
When you can snatch the pebble from your shoe, it will be time for you to leave.
Someone I know recently posted a comment on a message board asking if he could get any replies. I’m not sure if he will get any replies! What do you guys think?
Then you end up with a pebble in your snatch, which cannot be a good thing.
This other guy whose comment I read on a different message board seems like he thinks he might reply to the person who posted the requested for replies you posted about but it seems to me that the guy I posted about might not know about the guy you posted about and even if he did he might not post something that the guy you posted about would like and so I’m not sure if I should reply to the guy I posted about to tell him to reply to the guy you posted about but as I am forced by instinct, uncontrollable psychological compulsion and/or the armed madman who keeps me chained up in his basement and threatens to shoot me unless I open yet another thread asking people what they think about something that someone else said either to me or to someone else but which I either overheard or read somewhere to respond because if I didn’t respond to every such comment I encounter then I would be confused about how I ought to respond to those comments to respond to every such comment I thought I would post here about what I read and/or was told and ask what you people think I should do.
Gesundheit!
Why didn’t you just say that?
If I end up in Hell after I die, I will likely be condemned to diagram that sentence.
I once had Bam-Bam in my shoe–and Poppop in the attic.
If?..
Hell is nothing but diagramming sentences, balancing chemical equations, and being stuck in a meeting that’s already gone on for hours where some middle-manager (who isn’t even in our department so why do we even have to care about this) is halfway through the PowerPoint that he’s SO proud of because he just learned to animate each bullet point so they make a “cute” noise as they rocket or wave or curl into the frame. Which they do a lot, due to the twenty or so bullets on each of his slides and it’s got to be eighty degrees in here and oh, did I mention his slow, adenoidal voice which he uses to read every single word of every single paragraph that he’s crammed onto each overloaded slide and it’s now almost 5 pm and no, he’s not even halfway done…
Shoes? Luxury. When we were growing up we would have to wear newspapers on our feet. And we thought we were lucky!
Here’s my serious reply: You should stop talking to those people.
I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man that had nose hues.
I was sad, for I had no shoe, until I met a man with no feet, so I said to him, “Can I have your shoes?”
— Steven Wright
Let’s go to the quarry and throw stuff down there! 
That totally fucking rocked! 
We *dreamed *of having newspapers! All we had were rusty razors and lemon juice.
You had lemon juice? We put rock salt in our cuts and chewed pine needles for the scurvy.