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This is a question Misunderstood

My other half rang a courier today to get a disc sent over to a client. The courier company asked what it was she was sending. "A computer disc", she said.

Half an hour later, 3 blokes in a van turned up. They looked a little disappointed to be handed a floppy disc: they were all prepared to shift a computer desk across London.

Have you been utterly misunderstood recently?

(, Thu 6 Oct 2005, 23:06)
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I apologise and assure you I will no longer submit long, nonsensical answers
In the light of last week's QOTW, in which several b3tans took the opportunity to point out that my previous answers have been pretentious and, moreover, epic in length, I have decided to take a step back and look at myself and, more importantly, my written output on this board.

The term 'epic' has been used throughout the history of the arts as an adjective to describe a work of great creative scope, and has even become a noun used to label such works. The great War & Peace is often described as an epic literary work, and this description has since extended into cinema. Indeed, Richard Attenborough's Gandhi and David Lean's Lawrence of Arabia are hailed as historical epics. Yet when the term 'epic' was used to describe my writing, it was meant in a derogatory fashion, as though 'epic' was to be translated as "a rambling, over-long scrawl of worthless, uninteresting nonsense."

Of course, there have been others who have posted messages in praise of my efforts. If I was an arrogant, self-centred person I could use this praise as an excuse to continue in the same fashion as before. I could state, like some kind of acid-fried, semen-milked, fading rock star, that as long as my output makes at least one person happy then it is worthwhile. However, this approach to life is not in my character. Therefore I have decided to reduce the length of my answers. Hopefully the old adage "quality and not quantity" will remain at the forefront of my mind when I am composing future responses.

When I immerse my twitching consciousness in the erotic, animalistic act of writing, I tend to become a kind of sex-crazed Gummi Bear, flailing wildly at the keyboard, beating at the letters randomly with my purple fists in the vain hope that what appears on the screen will resemble some kind of legible prose (or, in a couple of cases, poetry). I then take the raw product of my emotional outpouring and construct from it various sentences. I then arrange these sentences into meaningful paragraphs. When these paragraphs are arranged in an order that I think is appropriate, I read over the piece and insert random adjectives and even entire descriptive sentences to flesh it out. This process is akin to taking your child, whom you love and cherish dearly, and holding him aloft with your sinewy arms for all the world to see, and bellowing at the top of your lungs to any poor soul within earshot, "Behold! Witness ye my progeny! Look upon him as the pride of my soul and the joy of my heart; as the fruit of my carnal labours and the throbbing product of a sweet yet violent union; but mostly as a reflection of myself!"

This, however, is no excuse. From now on I shall no longer write such expansive and nonsensical musings. I shall no longer waste the time of myself nor my fellow b3tans, whom I hold in the highest esteem and would do anything for. Indeed, were it possible I should very much like to gather all those who dwell here amidst the electronic ether and place them inside some kind of giant abandoned fish warehouse-cum-steam roller, blazing an unstoppable path to eternal glory and happiness. I would lovingly caress them one by one up and down their silky spines with my tender, feathery tongue. I would tweak Legless's proud chin delicately between thumb and forefinger, while gently singing a sweet lullaby to BadGirlActsGood through my nose. Despite his obvious bowel problems, I would treat JinDod with the utmost respect, dropping to one knee to offer him an ankle massage with my firm, meaty forehead. I would then offer shoe_pastry my veiny hand so that we may dance a merry waltz, before rousing calgacus and Mad McMad from their unsettled slumber to assure them that everything will be OK. It is just a vision I have. I am but a man; I am permitted to dream. To hope. To cry.

And so, on to my short, succinct answer to this week's QOTW:

I went into a cafe once and asked for a hot chocolate. The lady behind the counter was of Eastern European origin and she obviously completely misunderstood my request: she brought me a cheese and ham toastie. The whole fiasco caused me to smile.
(, Fri 7 Oct 2005, 12:54, Reply)

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