You did it, Bobo. Gregipus has descended into total incoherence,
presumably as a result of his desire to "debate" his speaker
enterprise with people who despise him. We've seen the full gamut of
symptoms -- arbitrary claims of rhetorical "victory", random subject
changes in order to avoid admitting he was wrong, and generally
descending into a fog of total incoherence.

I'm giving you most of the credit because his other haranguers were
the inconsequential Krooborg and its toadlike sidekick the Bug
Eater. Those two are only good for lies, slander, and incoherent
babbling, and are unable get past trotsky's defenses.

So congratulate yourself if you feel like it. Or indulge in a moment
of pity for RAO's pit bull. You earned it, either way.

"George M. Middius" wrote in message
...


You did it, Bobo. Gregipus has descended into total incoherence,
presumably as a result of his desire to "debate" his speaker
enterprise with people who despise him. We've seen the full gamut of
symptoms -- arbitrary claims of rhetorical "victory", random subject
changes in order to avoid admitting he was wrong, and generally
descending into a fog of total incoherence.

I'm giving you most of the credit because his other haranguers were
the inconsequential Krooborg and its toadlike sidekick the Bug
Eater. Those two are only good for lies, slander, and incoherent
babbling, and are unable get past trotsky's defenses.

So congratulate yourself if you feel like it. Or indulge in a moment
of pity for RAO's pit bull. You earned it, either way.


BOB
George, I can't tell you how much it means to me.

Sobs of emotion as Bob accepts a plaque, engraved with the image of a
snarling chihuahua, from presenter Quentin Tarantino.

Thank you, Quentin. It is very good for you to be here
to share my moment of triumph.

Bob holds the plaque high before the cheering -- and jeering -- crowd.

In the rear of the the auditorium, Weil sits silently, smacking his forehead
with his palm and rocking like Bill Gates.
Slowly he raises the gun, takes aim, and --

Trotsky grabs the gun!

TROTSKY
No, let me! He's mine! He keeps
talking **** about my Second Coming
speakers.

WEIL
But your hatred is personal, while mine
is the raging audiophile, raging,
raging against the waning of the light.

They struggle for the gun. The aim is deflected. Somehow the trigger is
pulled.
The immense blast echoes through the room.

Tarantino clutches his stomach. He's going down. He points at Trotsky with a
long,
bony finger.

TARANTINO
You! You! Shut the **** up, Trotsky.
You didn't know I'm an r.a.o. lurker? There's
one thing I want to tell you before I die.

Tarantino is on his knees now, blood pouring from his stomach,
the consequence of Trotsky's fatal shot. Bob drops the plaque
and tries to bandage the wound with his shirt.

TARANTINO
(to Trotsky)
Asshole!

"Lionel" lionel{dot}chapuis{at}free{dot}fr wrote in message
...
Bob Morein a écrit :

"George M. Middius" wrote in message
...


You did it, Bobo. Gregipus has descended into total incoherence,
presumably as a result of his desire to "debate" his speaker
enterprise with people who despise him. We've seen the full gamut of
symptoms -- arbitrary claims of rhetorical "victory", random subject
changes in order to avoid admitting he was wrong, and generally
descending into a fog of total incoherence.

I'm giving you most of the credit because his other haranguers were
the inconsequential Krooborg and its toadlike sidekick the Bug
Eater. Those two are only good for lies, slander, and incoherent
babbling, and are unable get past trotsky's defenses.

So congratulate yourself if you feel like it. Or indulge in a moment
of pity for RAO's pit bull. You earned it, either way.



BOB
George, I can't tell you how much it means to me.

Sobs of emotion as Bob accepts a plaque, engraved with the image of a
snarling chihuahua, from presenter Quentin Tarantino.

Thank you, Quentin. It is very good for you to be here
to share my moment of triumph.

Bob holds the plaque high before the cheering -- and jeering -- crowd.

In the rear of the the auditorium, Weil sits silently, smacking his
forehead
with his palm and rocking like Bill Gates.
Slowly he raises the gun, takes aim, and --

Trotsky grabs the gun!

TROTSKY
No, let me! He's mine! He keeps
talking **** about my Second Coming
speakers.

WEIL
But your hatred is personal, while mine
is the raging audiophile, raging,
raging against the waning of the light.

They struggle for the gun. The aim is deflected. Somehow the trigger is
pulled.
The immense blast echoes through the room.

Tarantino clutches his stomach. He's going down. He points at Trotsky
with a
long,
bony finger.

TARANTINO
You! You! Shut the **** up, Trotsky.
You didn't know I'm an r.a.o. lurker? There's
one thing I want to tell you before I die.

Tarantino is on his knees now, blood pouring from his stomach,
the consequence of Trotsky's fatal shot. Bob drops the plaque
and tries to bandage the wound with his shirt.

TARANTINO
(to Trotsky)
Asshole!



What a drama ! How lucky your are !
The ceremony has been quieter for me.
I let you have a small picture :


http://www.informactionfilms.com/fr/...os/hots_br.jpg

Man, would I trade my plaque for one of those in a NY minute!