Post by alister Post by Shit Stain Baker Post by Shit Stain Baker
I have been wacing for a little over three years.
In that time I won only once, by a fluke.
In all my laps, I never posted a "best lap time". At times I am a lap
Because I had my head up my ass and wasn't watching,I crashed into
three other cars at different times, as they attempted to pass.
Someone on a different group claims his granny could beat me hands down.
don't believe that.
Am I pissing in the wind with this? Or should I persevere?
Please don't peek at the answers before you post.
Please go find a group where you can make an actual contribution. If you
can't do that, then please stay away from this one.
So you don't have an opinion.
Unless I misunderstood him Bobster's opinion appears to be that your
petty trolling is unwelcome in this newsgroup.
I for one agree with him
I may often disagree with Alan's posts in this group but they are on
subject so have a place here. keep your vendetta to your self (or at
least places where Alan may be considered a nuisance.)
The poorest way to face life is to face it with a sneer. There are
many men who feel a kind of twister pride in cynicism; there are many
who confine themselves to criticism of the way others do what they
themselves dare not even attempt. There is no more unhealthy being, no
man less worthy of respect, than he who either really holds, or feigns
to hold, an attitude of sneering disbelief toward all that is great and
lofty, whether in achievement or in that noble effort which, even if it
fails, comes to second achievement. A cynical habit of thought and
speech, a readiness to criticise work which the critic himself never
tries to perform, an intellectual aloofness which will not accept
contact with life's realities - all these are marks, not as the
possessor would fain to think, of superiority but of weakness. They mark
the men unfit to bear their part painfully in the stern strife of
living, who seek, in the affection of contempt for the achievements of
others, to hide from others and from themselves in their own weakness.
The rôle is easy; there is none easier, save only the rôle of the man
who sneers alike at both criticism and performance.
It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the
strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them
better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena,
whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly;
who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort
without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the
deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends
himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph
of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails
while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold
and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.
Shame on the man of cultivated taste who permits refinement to develop
into fastidiousness that unfits him for doing the rough work of a
workaday world. Among the free peoples who govern themselves there is
but a small field of usefulness open for the men of cloistered life who
shrink from contact with their fellows. Still less room is there for
those who deride of slight what is done by those who actually bear the
brunt of the day; nor yet for those others who always profess that they
would like to take action, if only the conditions of life were not
exactly what they actually are. The man who does nothing cuts the same
sordid figure in the pages of history, whether he be a cynic, or fop, or
voluptuary. There is little use for the being whose tepid soul knows
nothing of great and generous emotion, of the high pride, the stern
belief, the lofty enthusiasm, of the men who quell the storm and ride
the thunder. Well for these men if they succeed; well also, though not
so well, if they fail, given only that they have nobly ventured, and
have put forth all their heart and strength. It is war-worn Hotspur,
spent with hard fighting, he of the many errors and valiant end, over
whose memory we love to linger, not over the memory of the young lord
who "but for the vile guns would have been a valiant soldier."