
Ted Max
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Everything posted by Ted Max
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It's disorientating not knowing who is who because then I have to judge posts purely on the content, and not by applying my satchel of collected prejudices regarding the poster.
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Huh? Am I missing something here...? Please explain in layman's terms as my humble head can't process much more than tgat. That you seek to proclaim your own humility is, combined with the Italianate diminutive nomenclature you appropriate, a base rhetorician's trick that will fool only those who would be willing, like children returning to the sweet bowl after an emetic exculpation of their greeed, to be fooled. It's the oldest trick in the alchemist's lost book, son. That you seek from me a further religiously orthodox explanation when I already have taken great pains to clarify and scarify my prose to the bare bear bones, as if to thrust upon me the accoutrements of theocratic doctrine and the sterile onanism of the seminary is, frankly Frankito, outrageous. I will not, as Prometheus would have no doubt uttered if he had just manned up, be bound by you. No rock, no liver - cry me an onion. If this seems harsh I will only state that you, to borrow an endearment from the sub-strata of discourse you are already wallowing in, started it.
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Looks like a certain resident of SE15 has turned their dial to MAX An opportunistic dig that combines a modish refusal to name names with a tacit admission that you are unable to confront reality, and instead prefer to gamble with the concept of a known truth. If you need someone to tuck you in at night, please be aware that that chocolate under the pillow will rot your teeth while you dream of the death of virtue. Yeah, really mean. I mean, really.
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"Please touch Oyster Card on reader to begin" I refuse to be fooled by the reverse-engineered fallacy of your imprecations to touch, hover, or in any way submit my prepaid electronic wallet to random inquisition by your goon-squad technology and its subsequent base financial imprecations to delete from my personal, and private, and privately personal, pocket book sums to be pre-paid on the premise of a promise of accommodating my desires for future travel. Furthermore, although you seek to deny it, my Oyster is indeed not mine, but held in trust with no reference to past heirarchical structures of predetermined biological organisational organisms. My Oyster is, in fact, the worlds. Please don't align yourself with those basely constructed idiots who would aver the reverse. You still have the chance to be better than that. I have, as they no doubt used to say in the dankly opportunistic whorehouses of Siam, sussed you out.
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"We called while you were out. Please call the number above to arrange redelivery" The Greeks had a name for such bare-faced deception, and I'm gaspingly agape you should seek to shake your mendacious tail feathers at me in that manner. You called while I was out? You called, while I was out? I'm flabbered and ghasted as to where to begin in deconstructing that little den of inequitous and sub-acqueous lacquer. And no, I will not call any number, being neither a fat-breasted bingo employee nor/delete/neither a slick-tongued denizen of the financial rape factories we modishly call the City. I am on to both you and your goatishly naive game-play.
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It's outrageously, self-defeatedly atypical of you to convert and subvert the established norms of societal interaction in order to attempt to confound this twisted and deluded ideology of hate. In seeking to avoid becoming what you love, you instead love what you have become. And as you know this very well, you don't need me to point this out to you. In fact in drawing me into doing so you have enlisted me in your dirty, unchivalrous and dangerous game. I should hate you for that but I feel only the pity the damned have for the saved. Reply if you must, but remember that I am on to you.
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One more contempary 'right' sort of book, Aye, you gotta have something that says "I'm unexpectedly fuckable" to the other half of your best mate, when you're on holiday.
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That's an easy assumption for you to make, Mr Lawrence.
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Strafer hasn't gone through the "I'm a new poster being bullied by the board" phase yet has he? Just as well he hasn't read the 8,23423,23423,2342 PMs I've received about him.
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I have read 25 of those. Looks quite US-focussed.
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Is there a Boden-approved reading list for the summer? From past catalogues I'm going Beevor's Stalingrad. Amsterdam and Atonement, from Ian McE. Nothing from Richard & Judy's sales promos, obv. This summer's "most-packed on top of the iPad charger before hitting the A303" will be The Crimson W@nk Fantasy and the White, but not with the BBC cover pic, clearly.
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http://images53.fotki.com/v440/photos/9/127099/8282594/101UsesforDeadCat-vi.jpg
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my taste in books > your taste in books.
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Aye, looks better sprayed on a wall.
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Original Cinque Ports: Hastings, Dover, Sandwich, New Romney, Hythe Near misses: Winchelsea, Rye
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With a donnish chuckle, I'd say Rye and Winchelsea are Antient Towns, strictly speaking.
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2 out of 5 = Sandwich and Dover.
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Name the cinque ports without looking it up.
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I was at Heathrow airport once, in the mid-noughties. There was a Bangladeshi family gathered near the departure gates, surrounding an elderly man and his wife. One by one, the men, women and children walked up and hugged that old couple. The old man touched his heart and then placed the tips of his fingers on the bowed heads of each of the children in turn. Each of the children handed over a single orange flower to the old woman, who wiped their tears with kind, wizened, hands. Seeing me looking on, one of the women in the party turned to me. She spoke as if she knew me. Perhaps she dd. "They're going home," she said. "After thirty-five years in this country they're returning to a land built of their memories. They've built four businesses, one for each of their sons. Both their daughters are married and they have more grandchildren than we have names in the family. He has made more than a life in this country, he has made dozens of lives; carved them from hard, grey English stone and moulded them from damp, red English clay. Now he longs to return to his own soft dark earth, to be carried by the warm rains and washed, clean, into the rich emptiness of the Bay of Bengal." As she spoke, the children started up a low song, with words I didn't understand. Its mounrful melody lifted and fell in slow time like a tropical tide, while tributaries of song poured in from the adults, eddying and swirling like the confluences of the Brahmaputra. Many of the workers at the airport, responding to these ancient Bengali cadences, joined in too in respectful tones. A Delta of emotions was carrying this old couple, supporting and forming them like two tiny, perfect pieces of silt, joined and yet separate, atoms of humanity, into the welcome of eternity. "That's amazing," I said. "But could you get a fucken move on, my flight leaves in 40 minutes."
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When am I supposed to laugh at *Bob*? Or is a painful wince of recognition at his rapdily deteriorating mental state all I should hope for?
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When am I supposed to laugh? 1993.
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Anyway, back to *Bob* and his apparent lack of commissions to score the soundtrack for these end times. I reckon Cash Converters could do with a jingle soon. Something mock-operatic with a part for a small animal in it.
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(A cable of criminals? Is that more or fewer than a vince of villains?) I'd rather live in the first film and watch the second to get a bit of "edge" in my life, whilst Hummaxing past the ads, of course. Is that an option?
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Join the army. Join the army. Join the army.
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