Are you up to the task?
(I have no clue how this would work)
(I have no clue how this would work)
Captain Jordan My other rocket is a car
Member
Seen
1 yr ago
Ha, a game of it! Why not?
The posts would have to be of substance, no points if someone just rambles on about nothing (or their day) for pages. Not that it needs to make logical sense, just be substantial. They would have to be grammatically correct and have proper spelling (to the extent you'd expect from an Advanced roleplayer), but it wouldn't need to be formal writing.
How it might work:
Jorick either writes a post or pulls up one of his own, and PMs it to you. You would read the post and create a prompt based on the post, then release it to the contestants at a predetermined time.
Contestants then have a certain amount of time following that (say 12 hours) to write based on the prompt. Submissions would be PMed to you by the deadline, and then all submissions would be posted along with the winner.
The goal is to have a blind test of long-windedness. It's not fair if folks see Jorick's post, they could easily out-wind him if his length is known.
The posts would have to be of substance, no points if someone just rambles on about nothing (or their day) for pages. Not that it needs to make logical sense, just be substantial. They would have to be grammatically correct and have proper spelling (to the extent you'd expect from an Advanced roleplayer), but it wouldn't need to be formal writing.
How it might work:
Jorick either writes a post or pulls up one of his own, and PMs it to you. You would read the post and create a prompt based on the post, then release it to the contestants at a predetermined time.
Contestants then have a certain amount of time following that (say 12 hours) to write based on the prompt. Submissions would be PMed to you by the deadline, and then all submissions would be posted along with the winner.
The goal is to have a blind test of long-windedness. It's not fair if folks see Jorick's post, they could easily out-wind him if his length is known.
Seravee Like Lightning in a Bottle
Member
Seen
1 yr ago
He's not even that long winded though.
Jorick Magnificent Bastard
Member
Seen
5 yrs ago
This is a horrible game idea. Here, let me outline why that is, just to make sure you understand.
First of all, how exactly do you measure how long winded someone is? Just typing a long post does not in and of itself make one long winded. Some topics require the fullness of a long explanation for one to get their thoughts and opinions out there. For instance, if the topic at hand is anything about religion, politics, or other other hot button issues, I would posit that longer pieces of speech are expected on the matter since there are so many angles to cover. Is one truly long winded in such circumstances? Say a single paragraph is the expectation for an average, non-controversial topic, but the average expectation for a post on religion is more like five paragraphs. Making a six paragraph long post in a religion thread would be considered long winded by those who do not understand the environment or are not used to it, but it would fall within standard deviation of an average post length, so would it in fact be long winded? I would say no, but the fact that others might say yes leads me to my second point.
The entire premise is far too subjective to make a game, something that has winners and losers, out of it. Some think anything more than a single line of text is long winded. Some think a fifteen paragraph post is perfectly fine. Some people think being long winded is more about the actual thoughts you're presenting versus the time it takes to explain them, such that explaining a complex issue in three paragraphs is not actually long winded whilst expanding "I like cookies" into a four sentence explanation would indeed be long winded. Once you set up some way to measure the length of one's wind, perhaps by direct comparison to a post of my own creation such as Captain Jordan suggested, the problem then becomes judgment. Who would be rendering such judgment? You? Pfft, a single judge is no solid basis for deciding the winner of a game or contest, and you're biased by association with me. A panel of others to judge? Similar problems present themselves, potential biases and uncertainty of their subjective measure of how long winded someone is, plus the whole rigamarole of finding people who would actually want to bother to take the time to do such judging. Public voting? Good fucking luck getting that to work out in any reasonable way, because public voting is notoriously awful.
Let's play pretend though, to continue the premise. Let's say you decide how exactly to measure how long winded someone is, which I doubt you can do, and then you figure out a reasonable way to render judgment, which I also doubt is feasible, how exactly would you keep things on a level playing field for the competitors? Having a post of my own for others to compare their nonsense to would be utterly unfair, for instance, because they could type whatever nonsense they felt like until their character/word/paragraph count was higher. Giving just a theme and telling people to get typing would also be problematic, because of that whole subjectivity thing. Say you gave the topic of gay marriage and told people to get on it. Someone might write a five page essay in which they delve into complex socioeconomic issues, whereas I write a five page essay that could be boiled down into "I support gay marriage and also I like girl on girl porn a lot," each with the same exact number of paragraphs and so forth, who would be the winner there? Logically I would have to be the winner because I took equal time to say less, and the core of being long winded is taking far too much time to say something, but I would have just rambled about semi-related nonsense while the other person actually put work into it. You could try maybe giving a specific argument with specific points that can be included along with nothing else, but then that would be stupidly limiting and ruin everything. There's just no good way to make sure everyone is on equal footing, thus the entire game/contest premise is destroyed because there is no chance of fair play. And if you say "but it's just a game, it doesn't have to be fair, blah blah blah" lemme just say it straight right now: fuck you. If you're gonna run this motherfucker, you're gonna do it right.
Of course, that leads to one inevitable conclusion: you cannot run this motherfucker right, therefore you should not do it at all. The horrid subjectivity of the subject matter, the troubles with trying to get impartial judges, and the issues with giving all competitors equal chances all make it a giant clusterfuck that won't ever work. I mean, honestly, it's such a dumb concept to begin with I don't know why you even bothered to make this thread in the first place. Have a little self respect, don't just throw shit at the walls and see what sticks. You don't want to be lumped in with those horrid randumb kids, do you? Seriously, go back to the drawing board and give a little thought to your ideas next time, or don't bother at all.
~5000 characters on why this idea is dumb, and I could have added a few more points in there to pad it out even more. I'm a little shit.
First of all, how exactly do you measure how long winded someone is? Just typing a long post does not in and of itself make one long winded. Some topics require the fullness of a long explanation for one to get their thoughts and opinions out there. For instance, if the topic at hand is anything about religion, politics, or other other hot button issues, I would posit that longer pieces of speech are expected on the matter since there are so many angles to cover. Is one truly long winded in such circumstances? Say a single paragraph is the expectation for an average, non-controversial topic, but the average expectation for a post on religion is more like five paragraphs. Making a six paragraph long post in a religion thread would be considered long winded by those who do not understand the environment or are not used to it, but it would fall within standard deviation of an average post length, so would it in fact be long winded? I would say no, but the fact that others might say yes leads me to my second point.
The entire premise is far too subjective to make a game, something that has winners and losers, out of it. Some think anything more than a single line of text is long winded. Some think a fifteen paragraph post is perfectly fine. Some people think being long winded is more about the actual thoughts you're presenting versus the time it takes to explain them, such that explaining a complex issue in three paragraphs is not actually long winded whilst expanding "I like cookies" into a four sentence explanation would indeed be long winded. Once you set up some way to measure the length of one's wind, perhaps by direct comparison to a post of my own creation such as Captain Jordan suggested, the problem then becomes judgment. Who would be rendering such judgment? You? Pfft, a single judge is no solid basis for deciding the winner of a game or contest, and you're biased by association with me. A panel of others to judge? Similar problems present themselves, potential biases and uncertainty of their subjective measure of how long winded someone is, plus the whole rigamarole of finding people who would actually want to bother to take the time to do such judging. Public voting? Good fucking luck getting that to work out in any reasonable way, because public voting is notoriously awful.
Let's play pretend though, to continue the premise. Let's say you decide how exactly to measure how long winded someone is, which I doubt you can do, and then you figure out a reasonable way to render judgment, which I also doubt is feasible, how exactly would you keep things on a level playing field for the competitors? Having a post of my own for others to compare their nonsense to would be utterly unfair, for instance, because they could type whatever nonsense they felt like until their character/word/paragraph count was higher. Giving just a theme and telling people to get typing would also be problematic, because of that whole subjectivity thing. Say you gave the topic of gay marriage and told people to get on it. Someone might write a five page essay in which they delve into complex socioeconomic issues, whereas I write a five page essay that could be boiled down into "I support gay marriage and also I like girl on girl porn a lot," each with the same exact number of paragraphs and so forth, who would be the winner there? Logically I would have to be the winner because I took equal time to say less, and the core of being long winded is taking far too much time to say something, but I would have just rambled about semi-related nonsense while the other person actually put work into it. You could try maybe giving a specific argument with specific points that can be included along with nothing else, but then that would be stupidly limiting and ruin everything. There's just no good way to make sure everyone is on equal footing, thus the entire game/contest premise is destroyed because there is no chance of fair play. And if you say "but it's just a game, it doesn't have to be fair, blah blah blah" lemme just say it straight right now: fuck you. If you're gonna run this motherfucker, you're gonna do it right.
Of course, that leads to one inevitable conclusion: you cannot run this motherfucker right, therefore you should not do it at all. The horrid subjectivity of the subject matter, the troubles with trying to get impartial judges, and the issues with giving all competitors equal chances all make it a giant clusterfuck that won't ever work. I mean, honestly, it's such a dumb concept to begin with I don't know why you even bothered to make this thread in the first place. Have a little self respect, don't just throw shit at the walls and see what sticks. You don't want to be lumped in with those horrid randumb kids, do you? Seriously, go back to the drawing board and give a little thought to your ideas next time, or don't bother at all.
~5000 characters on why this idea is dumb, and I could have added a few more points in there to pad it out even more. I'm a little shit.
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Does this count?
Does this count?
Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him on the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned:
—Introibo ad altare Dei.
Halted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called out coarsely:
—Come up, Kinch! Come up, you fearful jesuit!
Solemnly he came forward and mounted the round gunrest. He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surrounding land and the awaking mountains. Then, catching sight of Stephen Dedalus, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the air, gurgling in his throat and shaking his head. Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the top of the staircase and looked coldly at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, equine in its length, and at the light untonsured hair, grained and hued like pale oak.
Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the mirror and then covered the bowl smartly.
—Back to barracks! he said sternly.
He added in a preacher's tone:
—For this, O dearly beloved, is the genuine Christine: body and soul and blood and ouns. Slow music, please. Shut your eyes, gents. One moment. A little trouble about those white corpuscles. Silence, all.
He peered sideways up and gave a long slow whistle of call, then paused awhile in rapt attention, his even white teeth glistening here and there with gold points. Chrysostomos. Two strong shrill whistles answered through the calm.
—Thanks, old chap, he cried briskly. That will do nicely. Switch off the current, will you?
He skipped off the gunrest and looked gravely at his watcher, gathering about his legs the loose folds of his gown. The plump shadowed face and sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the middle ages. A pleasant smile broke quietly over his lips.
—The mockery of it! he said gaily. Your absurd name, an ancient Greek!
He pointed his finger in friendly jest and went over to the parapet, laughing to himself. Stephen Dedalus stepped up, followed him wearily halfway and sat down on the edge of the gunrest, watching him still as he propped his mirror on the parapet, dipped the brush in the bowl and lathered cheeks and neck.
Buck Mulligan's gay voice went on.
—My name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, two dactyls. But it has a Hellenic ring, hasn't it? Tripping and sunny like the buck himself. We must go to Athens. Will you come if I can get the aunt to fork out twenty quid?
He laid the brush aside and, laughing with delight, cried:
—Will he come? The jejune jesuit!
Ceasing, he began to shave with care.
—Tell me, Mulligan, Stephen said quietly.
—Yes, my love?
—How long is Haines going to stay in this tower?
Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his right shoulder.
—God, isn't he dreadful? he said frankly. A ponderous Saxon. He thinks you're not a gentleman. God, these bloody English! Bursting with money and indigestion. Because he comes from Oxford. You know, Dedalus, you have the real Oxford manner. He can't make you out. O, my name for you is the best: Kinch, the knife-blade.
He shaved warily over his chin.
—He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said. Where is his guncase?
—A woful lunatic! Mulligan said. Were you in a funk?
—I was, Stephen said with energy and growing fear. Out here in the dark with a man I don't know raving and moaning to himself about shooting a black panther. You saved men from drowning. I'm not a hero, however. If he stays on here I am off.
Buck Mulligan frowned at the lather on his razorblade. He hopped down from his perch and began to search his trouser pockets hastily.
—Scutter! he cried thickly.
He came over to the gunrest and, thrusting a hand into Stephen's upper pocket, said:
—Lend us a loan of your noserag to wipe my razor.
Stephen suffered him to pull out and hold up on show by its corner a dirty crumpled handkerchief. Buck Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly. Then, gazing over the handkerchief, he said:
—The bard's noserag! A new art colour for our Irish poets: snotgreen. You can almost taste it, can't you?
He mounted to the parapet again and gazed out over Dublin bay, his fair oakpale hair stirring slightly.
—God! he said quietly. Isn't the sea what Algy calls it: a grey sweet mother? The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea. Epi oinopa ponton. Ah, Dedalus, the Greeks! I must teach you. You must read them in the original. Thalatta! Thalatta! She is our great sweet mother. Come and look.
Stephen stood up and went over to the parapet. Leaning on it he looked down on the water and on the mailboat clearing the harbourmouth of Kingstown.
—Our mighty mother! Buck Mulligan said.
He turned abruptly his grey searching eyes from the sea to Stephen's face.
—The aunt thinks you killed your mother, he said. That's why she won't let me have anything to do with you.
—Someone killed her, Stephen said gloomily.
—You could have knelt down, damn it, Kinch, when your dying mother asked you, Buck Mulligan said. I'm hyperborean as much as you. But to think of your mother begging you with her last breath to kneel down and pray for her. And you refused. There is something sinister in you...
He broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek. A tolerant smile curled his lips.
—But a lovely mummer! he murmured to himself. Kinch, the loveliest mummer of them all!
He shaved evenly and with care, in silence, seriously.
Stephen, an elbow rested on the jagged granite, leaned his palm against his brow and gazed at the fraying edge of his shiny black coat-sleeve. Pain, that was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart. Silently, in a dream she had come to him after her death, her wasted body within its loose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath, that had bent upon him, mute, reproachful, a faint odour of wetted ashes. Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea hailed as a great sweet mother by the wellfed voice beside him. The ring of bay and skyline held a dull green mass of liquid. A bowl of white china had stood beside her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she had torn up from her rotting liver by fits of loud groaning vomiting.
Buck Mulligan wiped again his razorblade.
—Ah, poor dogsbody! he said in a kind voice. I must give you a shirt and a few noserags. How are the secondhand breeks?
—They fit well enough, Stephen answered.
Buck Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip.
—The mockery of it, he said contentedly. Secondleg they should be. God knows what poxy bowsy left them off. I have a lovely pair with a hair stripe, grey. You'll look spiffing in them. I'm not joking, Kinch. You look damn well when you're dressed.
—Thanks, Stephen said. I can't wear them if they are grey.
—He can't wear them, Buck Mulligan told his face in the mirror. Etiquette is etiquette. He kills his mother but he can't wear grey trousers.
He folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the smooth skin.
Stephen turned his gaze from the sea and to the plump face with its smokeblue mobile eyes.
—That fellow I was with in the Ship last night, said Buck Mulligan, says you have g.p.i. He's up in Dottyville with Connolly Norman. General paralysis of the insane!
He swept the mirror a half circle in the air to flash the tidings abroad in sunlight now radiant on the sea. His curling shaven lips laughed and the edges of his white glittering teeth. Laughter seized all his strong wellknit trunk.
—Look at yourself, he said, you dreadful bard!
Stephen bent forward and peered at the mirror held out to him, cleft by a crooked crack. Hair on end. As he and others see me. Who chose this face for me? This dogsbody to rid of vermin. It asks me too.
—I pinched it out of the skivvy's room, Buck Mulligan said. It does her all right. The aunt always keeps plainlooking servants for Malachi. Lead him not into temptation. And her name is Ursula.
Laughing again, he brought the mirror away from Stephen's peering eyes.
—The rage of Caliban at not seeing his face in a mirror, he said. If Wilde were only alive to see you!
Drawing back and pointing, Stephen said with bitterness:
—It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked looking-glass of a servant.
Buck Mulligan suddenly linked his arm in Stephen's and walked with him round the tower, his razor and mirror clacking in the pocket where he had thrust them.
—It's not fair to tease you like that, Kinch, is it? he said kindly. God knows you have more spirit than any of them.
Parried again. He fears the lancet of my art as I fear that of his. The cold steelpen.
—Cracked lookingglass of a servant! Tell that to the oxy chap downstairs and touch him for a guinea. He's stinking with money and thinks you're not a gentleman. His old fellow made his tin by selling jalap to Zulus or some bloody swindle or other. God, Kinch, if you and I could only work together we might do something for the island. Hellenise it.
Cranly's arm. His arm.
—And to think of your having to beg from these swine. I'm the only one that knows what you are. Why don't you trust me more? What have you up your nose against me? Is it Haines? If he makes any noise here I'll bring down Seymour and we'll give him a ragging worse than they gave Clive Kempthorpe.
Young shouts of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe's rooms. Palefaces: they hold their ribs with laughter, one clasping another. O, I shall expire! Break the news to her gently, Aubrey! I shall die! With slit ribbons of his shirt whipping the air he hops and hobbles round the table, with trousers down at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen with the tailor's shears. A scared calf's face gilded with marmalade. I don't want to be debagged! Don't you play the giddy ox with me!
Shouts from the open window startling evening in the quadrangle. A deaf gardener, aproned, masked with Matthew Arnold's face, pushes his mower on the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes of grasshalms.
To ourselves... new paganism... omphalos.
—Let him stay, Stephen said. There's nothing wrong with him except at night.
—Then what is it? Buck Mulligan asked impatiently. Cough it up. I'm quite frank with you. What have you against me now?
They halted, looking towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay on the water like the snout of a sleeping whale. Stephen freed his arm quietly.
—Do you wish me to tell you? he asked.
—Yes, what is it? Buck Mulligan answered. I don't remember anything.
He looked in Stephen's face as he spoke. A light wind passed his brow, fanning softly his fair uncombed hair and stirring silver points of anxiety in his eyes.
Stephen, depressed by his own voice, said:
—Do you remember the first day I went to your house after my mother's death?
Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said:
—What? Where? I can't remember anything. I remember only ideas and sensations. Why? What happened in the name of God?
—You were making tea, Stephen said, and went across the landing to get more hot water. Your mother and some visitor came out of the drawingroom. She asked you who was in your room.
—Yes? Buck Mulligan said. What did I say? I forget.
—You said, Stephen answered, O, it's only Dedalus whose mother is beastly dead.
A flush which made him seem younger and more engaging rose to Buck Mulligan's cheek.
—Did I say that? he asked. Well? What harm is that?
He shook his constraint from him nervously.
—Introibo ad altare Dei.
Halted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called out coarsely:
—Come up, Kinch! Come up, you fearful jesuit!
Solemnly he came forward and mounted the round gunrest. He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surrounding land and the awaking mountains. Then, catching sight of Stephen Dedalus, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the air, gurgling in his throat and shaking his head. Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the top of the staircase and looked coldly at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, equine in its length, and at the light untonsured hair, grained and hued like pale oak.
Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the mirror and then covered the bowl smartly.
—Back to barracks! he said sternly.
He added in a preacher's tone:
—For this, O dearly beloved, is the genuine Christine: body and soul and blood and ouns. Slow music, please. Shut your eyes, gents. One moment. A little trouble about those white corpuscles. Silence, all.
He peered sideways up and gave a long slow whistle of call, then paused awhile in rapt attention, his even white teeth glistening here and there with gold points. Chrysostomos. Two strong shrill whistles answered through the calm.
—Thanks, old chap, he cried briskly. That will do nicely. Switch off the current, will you?
He skipped off the gunrest and looked gravely at his watcher, gathering about his legs the loose folds of his gown. The plump shadowed face and sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the middle ages. A pleasant smile broke quietly over his lips.
—The mockery of it! he said gaily. Your absurd name, an ancient Greek!
He pointed his finger in friendly jest and went over to the parapet, laughing to himself. Stephen Dedalus stepped up, followed him wearily halfway and sat down on the edge of the gunrest, watching him still as he propped his mirror on the parapet, dipped the brush in the bowl and lathered cheeks and neck.
Buck Mulligan's gay voice went on.
—My name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, two dactyls. But it has a Hellenic ring, hasn't it? Tripping and sunny like the buck himself. We must go to Athens. Will you come if I can get the aunt to fork out twenty quid?
He laid the brush aside and, laughing with delight, cried:
—Will he come? The jejune jesuit!
Ceasing, he began to shave with care.
—Tell me, Mulligan, Stephen said quietly.
—Yes, my love?
—How long is Haines going to stay in this tower?
Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his right shoulder.
—God, isn't he dreadful? he said frankly. A ponderous Saxon. He thinks you're not a gentleman. God, these bloody English! Bursting with money and indigestion. Because he comes from Oxford. You know, Dedalus, you have the real Oxford manner. He can't make you out. O, my name for you is the best: Kinch, the knife-blade.
He shaved warily over his chin.
—He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said. Where is his guncase?
—A woful lunatic! Mulligan said. Were you in a funk?
—I was, Stephen said with energy and growing fear. Out here in the dark with a man I don't know raving and moaning to himself about shooting a black panther. You saved men from drowning. I'm not a hero, however. If he stays on here I am off.
Buck Mulligan frowned at the lather on his razorblade. He hopped down from his perch and began to search his trouser pockets hastily.
—Scutter! he cried thickly.
He came over to the gunrest and, thrusting a hand into Stephen's upper pocket, said:
—Lend us a loan of your noserag to wipe my razor.
Stephen suffered him to pull out and hold up on show by its corner a dirty crumpled handkerchief. Buck Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly. Then, gazing over the handkerchief, he said:
—The bard's noserag! A new art colour for our Irish poets: snotgreen. You can almost taste it, can't you?
He mounted to the parapet again and gazed out over Dublin bay, his fair oakpale hair stirring slightly.
—God! he said quietly. Isn't the sea what Algy calls it: a grey sweet mother? The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea. Epi oinopa ponton. Ah, Dedalus, the Greeks! I must teach you. You must read them in the original. Thalatta! Thalatta! She is our great sweet mother. Come and look.
Stephen stood up and went over to the parapet. Leaning on it he looked down on the water and on the mailboat clearing the harbourmouth of Kingstown.
—Our mighty mother! Buck Mulligan said.
He turned abruptly his grey searching eyes from the sea to Stephen's face.
—The aunt thinks you killed your mother, he said. That's why she won't let me have anything to do with you.
—Someone killed her, Stephen said gloomily.
—You could have knelt down, damn it, Kinch, when your dying mother asked you, Buck Mulligan said. I'm hyperborean as much as you. But to think of your mother begging you with her last breath to kneel down and pray for her. And you refused. There is something sinister in you...
He broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek. A tolerant smile curled his lips.
—But a lovely mummer! he murmured to himself. Kinch, the loveliest mummer of them all!
He shaved evenly and with care, in silence, seriously.
Stephen, an elbow rested on the jagged granite, leaned his palm against his brow and gazed at the fraying edge of his shiny black coat-sleeve. Pain, that was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart. Silently, in a dream she had come to him after her death, her wasted body within its loose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath, that had bent upon him, mute, reproachful, a faint odour of wetted ashes. Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea hailed as a great sweet mother by the wellfed voice beside him. The ring of bay and skyline held a dull green mass of liquid. A bowl of white china had stood beside her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she had torn up from her rotting liver by fits of loud groaning vomiting.
Buck Mulligan wiped again his razorblade.
—Ah, poor dogsbody! he said in a kind voice. I must give you a shirt and a few noserags. How are the secondhand breeks?
—They fit well enough, Stephen answered.
Buck Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip.
—The mockery of it, he said contentedly. Secondleg they should be. God knows what poxy bowsy left them off. I have a lovely pair with a hair stripe, grey. You'll look spiffing in them. I'm not joking, Kinch. You look damn well when you're dressed.
—Thanks, Stephen said. I can't wear them if they are grey.
—He can't wear them, Buck Mulligan told his face in the mirror. Etiquette is etiquette. He kills his mother but he can't wear grey trousers.
He folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the smooth skin.
Stephen turned his gaze from the sea and to the plump face with its smokeblue mobile eyes.
—That fellow I was with in the Ship last night, said Buck Mulligan, says you have g.p.i. He's up in Dottyville with Connolly Norman. General paralysis of the insane!
He swept the mirror a half circle in the air to flash the tidings abroad in sunlight now radiant on the sea. His curling shaven lips laughed and the edges of his white glittering teeth. Laughter seized all his strong wellknit trunk.
—Look at yourself, he said, you dreadful bard!
Stephen bent forward and peered at the mirror held out to him, cleft by a crooked crack. Hair on end. As he and others see me. Who chose this face for me? This dogsbody to rid of vermin. It asks me too.
—I pinched it out of the skivvy's room, Buck Mulligan said. It does her all right. The aunt always keeps plainlooking servants for Malachi. Lead him not into temptation. And her name is Ursula.
Laughing again, he brought the mirror away from Stephen's peering eyes.
—The rage of Caliban at not seeing his face in a mirror, he said. If Wilde were only alive to see you!
Drawing back and pointing, Stephen said with bitterness:
—It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked looking-glass of a servant.
Buck Mulligan suddenly linked his arm in Stephen's and walked with him round the tower, his razor and mirror clacking in the pocket where he had thrust them.
—It's not fair to tease you like that, Kinch, is it? he said kindly. God knows you have more spirit than any of them.
Parried again. He fears the lancet of my art as I fear that of his. The cold steelpen.
—Cracked lookingglass of a servant! Tell that to the oxy chap downstairs and touch him for a guinea. He's stinking with money and thinks you're not a gentleman. His old fellow made his tin by selling jalap to Zulus or some bloody swindle or other. God, Kinch, if you and I could only work together we might do something for the island. Hellenise it.
Cranly's arm. His arm.
—And to think of your having to beg from these swine. I'm the only one that knows what you are. Why don't you trust me more? What have you up your nose against me? Is it Haines? If he makes any noise here I'll bring down Seymour and we'll give him a ragging worse than they gave Clive Kempthorpe.
Young shouts of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe's rooms. Palefaces: they hold their ribs with laughter, one clasping another. O, I shall expire! Break the news to her gently, Aubrey! I shall die! With slit ribbons of his shirt whipping the air he hops and hobbles round the table, with trousers down at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen with the tailor's shears. A scared calf's face gilded with marmalade. I don't want to be debagged! Don't you play the giddy ox with me!
Shouts from the open window startling evening in the quadrangle. A deaf gardener, aproned, masked with Matthew Arnold's face, pushes his mower on the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes of grasshalms.
To ourselves... new paganism... omphalos.
—Let him stay, Stephen said. There's nothing wrong with him except at night.
—Then what is it? Buck Mulligan asked impatiently. Cough it up. I'm quite frank with you. What have you against me now?
They halted, looking towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay on the water like the snout of a sleeping whale. Stephen freed his arm quietly.
—Do you wish me to tell you? he asked.
—Yes, what is it? Buck Mulligan answered. I don't remember anything.
He looked in Stephen's face as he spoke. A light wind passed his brow, fanning softly his fair uncombed hair and stirring silver points of anxiety in his eyes.
Stephen, depressed by his own voice, said:
—Do you remember the first day I went to your house after my mother's death?
Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said:
—What? Where? I can't remember anything. I remember only ideas and sensations. Why? What happened in the name of God?
—You were making tea, Stephen said, and went across the landing to get more hot water. Your mother and some visitor came out of the drawingroom. She asked you who was in your room.
—Yes? Buck Mulligan said. What did I say? I forget.
—You said, Stephen answered, O, it's only Dedalus whose mother is beastly dead.
A flush which made him seem younger and more engaging rose to Buck Mulligan's cheek.
—Did I say that? he asked. Well? What harm is that?
He shook his constraint from him nervously.
Captain Jordan My other rocket is a car
Member
Seen
1 yr ago
Jorick said
<snip>
tl;dr ;)
Actually, while Jorick raises a decent point about judging, I believe I answered most of the other points in regards to fairness and substance. But it doesn't matter, my first post was pretty much facetious, so the point is moot anyway.
Dervish Let's get volatile
Member
Seen
25 days ago
You guys have way too much time on your hands.
Dervish said
You guys have way too much time on your hands.
Whoa there man, what else am I gonna do while I ignore doing this final paper
This bullshit isn't going to type itself
Dervish Let's get volatile
Member
Seen
25 days ago
Azarthes said
Whoa there man, what else am I gonna do while I ignore doing this final paperThis bullshit isn't going to type itself
Pictured: A better use of your time.
OP
my first post was pretty much facetious
Thats the only point of the thread!
Also good job jster!
OP
Jorick said
Lol I enjoyed skimming that. Im glad I made this thread, im satisfied with myself.
OP
Azarthes said
Whoa there man, what else am I gonna do while I ignore doing this final paperThis bullshit isn't going to type itself
Ugh I have a 10 page paper to do this weekend. How long does it have to be? Whats it on?
Jorick said -snip didn't even read-
Jorick wins by being more long-winded than himself. Cause no one can be more long winded than Jorick other than Jorick himself.
That is all.
RusalkaRabbit
Member
Seen
5 yrs ago
Dervish said
Pictured: A better use of your time.
Hell, this is even a better use of his time.
Dervish Let's get volatile
Member
Seen
25 days ago
RusalkaRabbit said
Hell, this is even a better use of his time.
This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
An analysis on long-windedness, by CidTheKid.
Part 1: Defining Long-windedness.
Before we can begin, let us define this term(long-windedness) so that we may work with it in a clear, objective manner. Long-windedness is obviously very subjective, but we can take steps to remedy that. Generally though, it could be agreed upon to be a description of overly-long text with very little actual content. We can work with that, so that we may eventually end up with something that we may use to accurately quantify the long-windedness of of a text. Let us look at the deciding variable of long-windedness in more detail, then.
The first is length, as it is clear that being long-winded is a case of being too long for it's content. This brings us to our second defining variable, content. While length, could easily be measured as characters, syllables, words, sentences, paragraphs, or so on, content is a much more nebulous subject. It is not the same to mash out 4000 characters of utterly random nonsense, as it is to make a careful poem, exactly 4000 characters in length, or to hold a key down for 4000 characters. The content would be utterly different in each case. One way to define content, used in information theory, is to measure how predictable a text is. The actual term is entropy, and we will not be using it rigorously, mind you, but it is a somewhat helpful concept to use.
One way to explain entropy, in information theory, is the predictability of the content of a certain message, given a partial sample of prior messages. So for example, the string of characters 'aaaaaaaaaaaaa' has less entropy than the string 'abaababababaaa', as we can easily make the assumption that any character in the first string will be 'a', while the second string may either contain an 'a' or 'b'.
We can expand this to words, and the principle remains the same. So, the more predictable a text is, the less content it contains, we may say. For our definition of content, we will use words as they are a much better way to convey meaning than characters or syllables; each sentence on it's own carries meaning, while the same is not true for characters, or syllables.
So, longwinded-ness could then be quantified as length over content. Or entropy, should the reader prefer the term, as much as we have butchered it so far. More specifically, let:
L = total amount of words / The entropy of the text
where L is the long-windedness of the text.
We run into a problem then. Imagine a book, 5000 pages in length, the text of which is nothing but the word "Butterfly" repeated over and over again. Should such a text be considered long-winded? Certainly, it has great length, and very little content. However, it can hardly be considered to be comparable to natural language, it is far more predictable than the spoken word, or any form of communication. Were to use our definition for judgement, any text whose entropy is less than that of natural language should be cast aside.
However, for our purposes, it is good enough.
Part 2: Long-windedness as regards to judgement.
At the end of part 1, we briefly touched upon what happens when a text is too predictable. Another problem is text that is completely random, totally unpredictable. For our purposes, it is best to compare the entropy of judged text to that of natural language, and see that it is somewhat similar. This is to avoid the aforementioned copypasta technique, or the mash-keyboard technnique.
However, this runs into the opposite problem, where truly long-winded text is indifferentiable from non-long-winded text. So Fuck it. Just imagine I typed out the longest shit ever about absolutely nothing and it was all total bullshit, and it was awesome and shit. Half the crap here isn't even true, it's just a mixture of pseudo-information theory mixed with utter wankery in an attempt to sound somewhat smart and shit. But really, it's not all that great. Like yeah, it's total bullshit. If we actually used this definition, then it would be trivial to write a program that generates incredibly long, unreadable swaths of text that would totally be more long-winded than Jorick. We could make them war-and-peace sized texts. We could make Ayn Rand look like fucking brief. Anyways, length isn't the best measure of a writer anyway, in my opinion brevity is. Because it's to make really long, winding, endless and neverending strings of text, but making short stuff is much harder.
But with this quantifiable definition of long-windedness, it should still be no problem at all to consider judging a contest. It could be easy to judge it, and create it, as all competitors could work on a single theme, while however wrote the most long-winded text as we have just defined, would be the winner. While long-windedness as regards to certain subjects is relative, or may seem subjective, it really isn't all that important, as the most long-winded would be in relation to other competitors, not in terms of some absolute value.
Part 3: Long-windedness as regards to Jorick.
fuck if i know, i never read his posts.
there all to long
part 4 long-windedness as a good idea.
its fucking not
like foreals this is total bullshit. ive said it before its not so hard to type out 5000+ words of padding and bullshit that is still sorta meaningful, and it could even be automated, im just not up to doing it, and very few people wanna do useless crap so it isn't all that common. but whatever. seriously, padding is easy, im doing it right now and im not even thinking too hard about it. because for reals its easy to almost repeat yourself, but not really, making it seem like everything you say is new and different even when it isn't. it doesn't even matter whether the end result is meaningful, because even if it is, i doubt anyone has read the whole thing without their eyeballs falling out of their sockets, because jesus seriously, not even i would read this crap and i typed it all out. which makes me an idiot for doing so, especially as i did to look cool on the internet.
because the endall beall of approval is looking good on the internet. which is why theres so many camwhores out there, why people like nat have imitators and whatnot. attention is a real commodity nowadays, especially as everyone has a limited amount to use on various crap. its true, its why not everyone becomes a doctor/musician/poet/actor/phycisist, unless they are insane or something, or have access to a timetravel machine or are immortal or somecrap.
part 5 conclusion
by now, in case you can't tell, ive stopped caring and im typing just to increase the word count and character count, even though it's already pretty long as it is, but because i want to do some oneupmanship i need to make it longer. its still not long enough. but it will be soon enough. hopefully. man this was a pretty good use of my time. i could've done something productive, but instead i did this. which only further cements my status as a total idiot. but whatever.
i started this crap, im sure as hell gonna finish it. up to here is like 7000 chars, lets see if i can make it 10000 with just some more padding.
so yeah, in case you couldn't tell, long-windedness seems easy enough to define, but actually using it is kinda hard, as you can see by the various problems we've had and yeah. im not gonna be the one to solve them, and i don't feel like doing it, but i bet it's totally possible. its like knowing is half the battle. which brings to mind an interesting thought. you know how the nazis kicked ass up until they got their asses kicked? its a gross overgeneralization of what actually happened, but it doesn't matter. what does matter is why. so, they had this super cool machine called the enigma, which is like, some super secret codebox that made wicked hard to crack codes using a series of rotating cylinders. it was essentially a pseudorandom number generator.
and it was really hard to crack. like, really really hard. you couldn't do it by hand, unlike say a ceasar cipher. which is the schoolyard thing where you replace every letter with some other letter, and you get your message back by doing it backwards. the problem with it, is that language isn't random, and some letters come up more than others. if you are a writer, then you probably know e is the most common letter used in text. so, obviously, if you have a message in code, than the most common letter in the message is probably going to be e, and you can work your way from there to decode the message.
so, the nazis knew this, and they knew the allies knew this. so what happens next is they make enigma in order to make the problem go away. the way enigma worked, was that it went down from an initial setup, such that every letter would get turned into some other letter, and the same letter got turned into different letters. it's complicated, and i aint explaining shit that ill probably explain wrong. go look it up. anyways, the problem with enigma was that it was not a wholly random machine. if you had the initial state of the machine, you could easily translate any message you got from it. and if you had some non-random message from enigma, with words you could easily figure out without decoding you could also work your way backwards to the initial state. so the allies, well, mostly the british and polish radio operators, to be precise, worked out a machine that code decode messages from enigma in a matter of hours. which is important, because the cylinder settings were changed on a daily basis.
so this happened about midwar, and once the allies knew what the axis powers were doing, strategy-wise, they could easily plan counter-offensives and whatnot. so you know, knowledge wins wars, as does not attacking russia in the winter, and that's why you should stay in school and work on your degree. unless it's a useless degree that doesn't teach you any useful skills, which won't help you very much. also, not attack russia. for reals, it does not work out, ever.
and that was >10000 chars.
I'm done with this bullshit. like seriously.
TL;DR: I have no clue. Don't write posts while drinking firewater, kids.
Part 1: Defining Long-windedness.
Before we can begin, let us define this term(long-windedness) so that we may work with it in a clear, objective manner. Long-windedness is obviously very subjective, but we can take steps to remedy that. Generally though, it could be agreed upon to be a description of overly-long text with very little actual content. We can work with that, so that we may eventually end up with something that we may use to accurately quantify the long-windedness of of a text. Let us look at the deciding variable of long-windedness in more detail, then.
The first is length, as it is clear that being long-winded is a case of being too long for it's content. This brings us to our second defining variable, content. While length, could easily be measured as characters, syllables, words, sentences, paragraphs, or so on, content is a much more nebulous subject. It is not the same to mash out 4000 characters of utterly random nonsense, as it is to make a careful poem, exactly 4000 characters in length, or to hold a key down for 4000 characters. The content would be utterly different in each case. One way to define content, used in information theory, is to measure how predictable a text is. The actual term is entropy, and we will not be using it rigorously, mind you, but it is a somewhat helpful concept to use.
One way to explain entropy, in information theory, is the predictability of the content of a certain message, given a partial sample of prior messages. So for example, the string of characters 'aaaaaaaaaaaaa' has less entropy than the string 'abaababababaaa', as we can easily make the assumption that any character in the first string will be 'a', while the second string may either contain an 'a' or 'b'.
We can expand this to words, and the principle remains the same. So, the more predictable a text is, the less content it contains, we may say. For our definition of content, we will use words as they are a much better way to convey meaning than characters or syllables; each sentence on it's own carries meaning, while the same is not true for characters, or syllables.
So, longwinded-ness could then be quantified as length over content. Or entropy, should the reader prefer the term, as much as we have butchered it so far. More specifically, let:
L = total amount of words / The entropy of the text
where L is the long-windedness of the text.
We run into a problem then. Imagine a book, 5000 pages in length, the text of which is nothing but the word "Butterfly" repeated over and over again. Should such a text be considered long-winded? Certainly, it has great length, and very little content. However, it can hardly be considered to be comparable to natural language, it is far more predictable than the spoken word, or any form of communication. Were to use our definition for judgement, any text whose entropy is less than that of natural language should be cast aside.
However, for our purposes, it is good enough.
Part 2: Long-windedness as regards to judgement.
At the end of part 1, we briefly touched upon what happens when a text is too predictable. Another problem is text that is completely random, totally unpredictable. For our purposes, it is best to compare the entropy of judged text to that of natural language, and see that it is somewhat similar. This is to avoid the aforementioned copypasta technique, or the mash-keyboard technnique.
However, this runs into the opposite problem, where truly long-winded text is indifferentiable from non-long-winded text. So Fuck it. Just imagine I typed out the longest shit ever about absolutely nothing and it was all total bullshit, and it was awesome and shit. Half the crap here isn't even true, it's just a mixture of pseudo-information theory mixed with utter wankery in an attempt to sound somewhat smart and shit. But really, it's not all that great. Like yeah, it's total bullshit. If we actually used this definition, then it would be trivial to write a program that generates incredibly long, unreadable swaths of text that would totally be more long-winded than Jorick. We could make them war-and-peace sized texts. We could make Ayn Rand look like fucking brief. Anyways, length isn't the best measure of a writer anyway, in my opinion brevity is. Because it's to make really long, winding, endless and neverending strings of text, but making short stuff is much harder.
But with this quantifiable definition of long-windedness, it should still be no problem at all to consider judging a contest. It could be easy to judge it, and create it, as all competitors could work on a single theme, while however wrote the most long-winded text as we have just defined, would be the winner. While long-windedness as regards to certain subjects is relative, or may seem subjective, it really isn't all that important, as the most long-winded would be in relation to other competitors, not in terms of some absolute value.
Part 3: Long-windedness as regards to Jorick.
fuck if i know, i never read his posts.
there all to long
part 4 long-windedness as a good idea.
its fucking not
like foreals this is total bullshit. ive said it before its not so hard to type out 5000+ words of padding and bullshit that is still sorta meaningful, and it could even be automated, im just not up to doing it, and very few people wanna do useless crap so it isn't all that common. but whatever. seriously, padding is easy, im doing it right now and im not even thinking too hard about it. because for reals its easy to almost repeat yourself, but not really, making it seem like everything you say is new and different even when it isn't. it doesn't even matter whether the end result is meaningful, because even if it is, i doubt anyone has read the whole thing without their eyeballs falling out of their sockets, because jesus seriously, not even i would read this crap and i typed it all out. which makes me an idiot for doing so, especially as i did to look cool on the internet.
because the endall beall of approval is looking good on the internet. which is why theres so many camwhores out there, why people like nat have imitators and whatnot. attention is a real commodity nowadays, especially as everyone has a limited amount to use on various crap. its true, its why not everyone becomes a doctor/musician/poet/actor/phycisist, unless they are insane or something, or have access to a timetravel machine or are immortal or somecrap.
part 5 conclusion
by now, in case you can't tell, ive stopped caring and im typing just to increase the word count and character count, even though it's already pretty long as it is, but because i want to do some oneupmanship i need to make it longer. its still not long enough. but it will be soon enough. hopefully. man this was a pretty good use of my time. i could've done something productive, but instead i did this. which only further cements my status as a total idiot. but whatever.
i started this crap, im sure as hell gonna finish it. up to here is like 7000 chars, lets see if i can make it 10000 with just some more padding.
so yeah, in case you couldn't tell, long-windedness seems easy enough to define, but actually using it is kinda hard, as you can see by the various problems we've had and yeah. im not gonna be the one to solve them, and i don't feel like doing it, but i bet it's totally possible. its like knowing is half the battle. which brings to mind an interesting thought. you know how the nazis kicked ass up until they got their asses kicked? its a gross overgeneralization of what actually happened, but it doesn't matter. what does matter is why. so, they had this super cool machine called the enigma, which is like, some super secret codebox that made wicked hard to crack codes using a series of rotating cylinders. it was essentially a pseudorandom number generator.
and it was really hard to crack. like, really really hard. you couldn't do it by hand, unlike say a ceasar cipher. which is the schoolyard thing where you replace every letter with some other letter, and you get your message back by doing it backwards. the problem with it, is that language isn't random, and some letters come up more than others. if you are a writer, then you probably know e is the most common letter used in text. so, obviously, if you have a message in code, than the most common letter in the message is probably going to be e, and you can work your way from there to decode the message.
so, the nazis knew this, and they knew the allies knew this. so what happens next is they make enigma in order to make the problem go away. the way enigma worked, was that it went down from an initial setup, such that every letter would get turned into some other letter, and the same letter got turned into different letters. it's complicated, and i aint explaining shit that ill probably explain wrong. go look it up. anyways, the problem with enigma was that it was not a wholly random machine. if you had the initial state of the machine, you could easily translate any message you got from it. and if you had some non-random message from enigma, with words you could easily figure out without decoding you could also work your way backwards to the initial state. so the allies, well, mostly the british and polish radio operators, to be precise, worked out a machine that code decode messages from enigma in a matter of hours. which is important, because the cylinder settings were changed on a daily basis.
so this happened about midwar, and once the allies knew what the axis powers were doing, strategy-wise, they could easily plan counter-offensives and whatnot. so you know, knowledge wins wars, as does not attacking russia in the winter, and that's why you should stay in school and work on your degree. unless it's a useless degree that doesn't teach you any useful skills, which won't help you very much. also, not attack russia. for reals, it does not work out, ever.
and that was >10000 chars.
I'm done with this bullshit. like seriously.
TL;DR: I have no clue. Don't write posts while drinking firewater, kids.
Doivid said
Thats the only point of the thread!Also good job jster!
You say good job as if I wrote all that.
I just copied the first bit of Ulysses.
I now know what it feels like to be Jorick. You all see a block of text and assume it fits and move on.
OP
Jster said
You say good job as if I wrote all that.I just copied the first bit of Ulysses. I now know what it feels like to be Jorick. You all see a block of text and assume it fits and move on.
P. Much yeah.
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