In article <2kmveq$qgp@snake.CS.Berkeley.EDU>, Curtis Yarvin wrote:
Quit spraying spittle and train yourself to shut the f*ck 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, f*cking, 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 sh*t 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, FVCK OFF.
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