This is too rich. I hope that all of these posts are archived for sociologists later on. This is just too good.

So guard-boy you got to fire some cool new weapons? And that is a sign of impending martial law? How long have you been in the guard? I was in the Army Reserves and every once in a while we got to try out weapons that were not part of our mission. Did I conclude that we were about to be deployed for martial law? Uhh..no. I just had fun on the range.

Oh but please do keep up the speculation. Just too funny...

-- You Knowwho (debunk@doomeridiots.com), November 16, 1999

Answers

Your posts will be archived for the same purpose.

YouKnowNotWhatPollyIdiot

-- snooze button (alarmclock_2000@yahoo.com), November 16, 1999.

PLEASE REFRAIN FROM FEEDING THE SLIMY TROLLS!!!

Nuf said.

Diane

-- Diane J. Squire (sacredspaces@yahoo.com), November 16, 1999.

Got your fingers in your ears Diane? A little concerned about your unravelling apocalypse?

-- You Knowwho (debunk@doomeridiots.com), November 16, 1999.

A rational explanation for making Y2K preparations

http://www.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id=001R UO

Sincerely,
Stan Faryna

Got 14 days of preps? If not, get started now. Click here.

Click here and check out the TB2000 preparation forum.

-- Stan Faryna (faryna@groupmail.com), November 16, 1999.

Ain't it a hoot when the trolls bite each other.

-- Sam (Gunmkr52@aol.com), November 16, 1999.

There's a rig out in the North Sea, said to be the largest in the world. Called the Troll. (saw it on tv) It is used to pump GAS.

-- got gas (gaspump@no.thing), November 16, 1999.

It is my pleasure to be your entertainment. I can do other tricks, mostly involving firearms, with you holding a cigarette in your mouth.

Kook

-- Y2Kook (Y2Kook@usa.net), November 16, 1999.

THE RAVEN

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door

"'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--

Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore--

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore--

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

"'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door--

Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;--

This it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door;--

Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"--

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore--

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--

'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore--

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door--

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing farther then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered--

Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before--

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."

Then the bird said "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of 'Never--nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!--

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--

On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore--

Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted--nevermore!

-- Commit random (acts@of.poetry), November 16, 1999.

I will now sing for debunkie....

What goes up must come down, spinning wheel got's to go round, talk about your troubles it's a cry'n shame, ride a painted poney let the spinning wheel spin....

-- For your eyes bunkie (winken@blinken.now), November 16, 1999.

Summer Time

Summer time and the living is easy

Fish are jumpin

and the cotton is high

Woe now your daddy's rich

and your mamma's good lookin

so hush little baby

don't you cry

One of these mornings

Your going to rise up singing

Your gonna spread your wings

and fly to the sky

But until that morning,

there anin't nothing gonna harm you

so hush little baby

don't you cry.

-- angel (angel@sumangelll.xcom), November 16, 1999.

I vote for the "Unknown Poet" as the best response to troll postings. I click on the troll threads now, scroll past the troll posts, and just read the cool poetry. Thanks!!

-- (RUOK@yesiam.com), November 16, 1999.

(Blush)

Imitation will be happily considered the sincerest form of flattery.

-- Commit random (acts@of.poetry), November 16, 1999.

And let's not forget the songmeister, either! Thanks for both the poetry and songs, gives meaning from the idiotic ramblings of these piss-ant trolls.

-- King of Spain (madrid@aol.cum), November 16, 1999.

You know who,

You've really got me wondering what you're like in person. I guess this is because unlike Flint, Decker, & other "debunkers" that occasionally raise good points, you have absolutely nothing useful to say. You're the one who always got their ass whipped all the time in school cause they didn't know when to shutup, right? Thought so.

-- cavscout (don'tgoawaym@d.justgoaway), November 16, 1999.