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- From: tbsc@volcano.tbsc.ORG (talk.bizarre Steering Committee)
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- Subject: Welcome to talk.bizarre! (Monthly Posting)
- Supersedes: <talk-bizarre_761584275@rtfm.mit.edu>
- Followup-To: talk.bizarre
- Date: 26 Mar 1994 17:16:19 GMT
- Organization: talk.bizarre Steering Committee (TINC)
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- X-Mr-Attribution: curtis@snake.cs.berkeley.edu (Curtis Yarvin)
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- Archive-name: talk-bizarre
-
- Good afternoon! Last month someone complained that the Monthly Post
- was `too unfriendly'. Now what do you make of that? I was stumped.
- Nevertheless I looked for something else to send out. It's the Flame of
- the Month. I think it does make the point.
-
- In article <CLsH5y.590@lut.ac.uk>, <L.H.Wood@lut.ac.uk> wrote:
-
- Unfortunately, this is not retroactively applied to those of us
- Curtsy took a random dislike to.
-
- It seems that oldbies can't be blowhards.
-
-
- In article <2kmveq$qgp@snake.CS.Berkeley.EDU>, Curtis Yarvin wrote:
-
- Quit spraying spittle and train yourself to shut the fuck up
- and look me in the eye when I grab you by the neck. Manners!
- Didn't you go to Eton?
-
- Now, look, boy. I grew up with blowhards. I've worked with
- blowhards all my life; I must regularly socialize with
- blowhards; and when I die, odds are I'll be buried by blowhards.
-
- I know blowhards, Lloyd, and you're no blowhard.
-
- You could work like Stakhanov all your life and still not make
- it to blowhard junior grade. If John Perry pinned a tin star
- on your tie and made you deputy blowhard the tack would fall
- out the first time you bent over to drool on your shoes. You
- couldn't even be a substitute blowhard; you couldn't fill in
- for five minutes while the regular blowhard was in the bathroom
- picking the pubic hair out of his teeth.
-
- What are you? You're nothing. You're empty air; you have not
- the substance or character of a puffball. You could no more be
- a blowhard than the clouds turn to butter and fall from the sky.
-
- Your only dignity you find in pesthood. You have the clotted
- smugness of a mosquito fed to bursting off a corpse in a ditch.
- It is not much, but it becomes you. Far be it from me to deny
- a man his ambitions. If whining is your only pen to mark the
- world, then by all means write your name in bold.
-
- But write it elsewhere. You've been the wad of chewing gum
- stuck to the underside of this newsgroup for as long as I know,
- and in all that time I cannot remember being amused by your
- words even once. Not once. You are constantly, gratingly,
- abominably dull.
-
- Yes. Yes, Lloyd, you are boring. You are more boring than
- sand. You are more boring than bricks; if you stood still in
- San Francisco the building inspectors would garb you in
- unreinforced-masonry citations. You are more boring even than
- that little brown lizard, the basilisk of old; it is a wonder
- that all who see you do not turn instantly to stone. You are
- just, plain, fucking, boring.
-
- I hope this comes as no surprise to you. God forbid you
- discover your insipidity in one great gout of truth; it is a
- pox that must be diagnosed as slowly as it heals. Perhaps you
- don't know it, in which case the gods have pity on you; perhaps
- you do, in which case you're just a common or garden asshole.
-
- Or at least that's my opinion. And though I'm no arbiter of
- the heavens I have never heard anyone speak your name without a
- sort of slight frown, as of a beetle discovered in cheese. If
- you're a caper anyone ordered in his soup, let him speak now.
-
- Yes. Anyone? Is there a subtlety in Lloyd Wood that I have
- lost, a secret grace in his flounderings? Has my bile draped a
- drab curtain over the jewels in his heart? Is he a prize, a
- man of wit and taste, a pearl in the mud? Is there any gold at
- all in his pyrite?
-
- Tell me, someone, or I'll assume the worst.
-
- Which is bad; but not so bad. Lloyd, Lloyd, fear not our ire.
- There are many of your kind in the world, perhaps many more
- than ours.
-
- But this is not your rock to hide under. The itch in your
- spiracles is no phantom pox; you are not at home here. No matter
- how deep you burrow our mud will never be yours. Stop trying.
-
- You pollute this place. You cast your shit upon the waters and
- drive away the fish. Go forth and find your own. Go, go, go.
- Set your feet adance; make haste; get thee gone.
-
- Git.
-
- And don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.
-
- c
-
-
-
-
- Now, FUCK OFF.
-
- By the Holy Claws of Klortho the Magnificent, this IS a fine morning!
- talk.bizarre Steering Committee tbsc@volcano.tbsc.org
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