Page 1 of 1
The Ultimate Threadkiller
Posted: Sat Jan 04, 2003 2:53 pm
by Ben
So now we have a base which features the supposed "best" all-time threads that have ever existed on this BBS.
And whose name appears as the last poster in almost every single one of them?
Jonsey is like that guy who comes up to a group of people having a discussion and says "HEY GUYS WHADDYA TALKIN ABOUT" and then they all break up.
Posted: Sat Jan 04, 2003 3:35 pm
by Ice Cream Jonsey
I figured that you'd either mention that, or the fact that you started three of the threads that are in that base ... and try to rub my nose in the fact that you are better for this BBS than I am or something.
Posted: Sat Jan 04, 2003 5:00 pm
by Worm
Conflict ... is definately cute.
EDIT: definitely ... do you guys even care?
Posted: Sat Jan 04, 2003 6:04 pm
by Luke Skywalker
I care...
Posted: Sun Jan 05, 2003 12:21 am
by Ben
Worm wrote:Conflict ... is definately cute.
EDIT: definitely ... do you guys even care?
Yes. I hate it when people screw up "definately/definitely". And I consequently grow to hate the people who do it.
So, good call on the EDIT.
Posted: Sun Jan 05, 2003 3:54 am
by Worm
I always EDIt as a matter of personal pride. Sometimes I type without thinking then notice on that quick few second review occuring after I press submit. I in all fairness think I kill more threads.
Posted: Sun Jan 05, 2003 3:56 am
by Ben
Oh, hey, nobody's saying you don't suck, Worm. Take heart.
Posted: Sun Jan 05, 2003 5:19 am
by Worm
That really means so much to me.
Posted: Sun Jan 05, 2003 12:55 pm
by Lex
I think you all suck.
REJOICE!
Posted: Sun Jan 05, 2003 2:47 pm
by Ice Cream Jonsey
oOf! ThAt's a kIcK iN tHe tEsTiClEs!1!1!1!!
Posted: Mon Jan 06, 2003 11:28 pm
by Ice Cream Jonsey
Will one of you rubes please respond to this thread so that I don't kill it? Please?
Posted: Mon Jan 06, 2003 11:37 pm
by dd archives
I recall my abortive attempt at summer baseball. I had been playing "tee" ball throughout my youth which soon gave rise to little league. At the end of one year (I couldn't have been more than 11 years old) I came into "close" a game for my team and somehow struck out the side. My throws (I could not call them 'pitches' at this late date) had no movement. They had no speed. I simply threw the ball past the three worst players on the worst team that year.
But alack, I didn't know that then.
Our bodies changed throughout that winter and I suppose I fancied myself as someone who the ball could be given to over the bleak, fruitless frost. We came back that spring in the next league up and my new coach agreed to let me be the starting pitcher for the first game. My father, an all-state, star high school pitcher watched from his perch of solitude. He knew what was coming. But he refused to teach me the "curveball." Oh, how I asked. Oh, how I begged. Confident that the 50mph fastball I had would overpower my fellow opposing batters, I wanted something to really wow them.
But it did not happen. I was not taught. The inevitable occured. The other young boys pounded my lazily-tossed throws and I left the game in the first inning, never to pitch again.
I suppose I blamed my father then, but I now of course blame myself. He came home from work early that one day and found me in the middle of an all-male foursome orgy. He was stunned, but only in my friends could I find the solace that he had denied me on the pitching mound. As I lay comforted in the tender, teenage warmth of my closest friends I could not supress a knowing shudder: though my father distanced himself from me that summer, I at least had a curveball for him.
- digital depression