Just as an offhand suggestion, may I recommend not taking longer to judge a challenge than the contestants do to complete it?
Agreed, you can reply to who you like. I was merely elaborating on who I was addressing, as there seemed to be confusion about how the quoting system worked earlier in the thread. You're reading more into it than is there.
To remain on topic though, I must ask Starseeker, what do you define as 'grammar trolling'? Should I be allowed to comment in passing that you may want to consider installing a Spell Checker, for example? Also, where do you draw the line between acceptable typing, and unadulterated txt-tlk?
I reply to the topic of the post, and as a result get chastised by an admin for not replying to the off-topic discussion instead. How quaint. Especially considering Chev's comment of:
Which is it to be? Am I to address the OP, as I initially thought, or am I to address the off-topic discussion?
(Please note: I am currently addressing you, Misty. You can tell, because it is your name in the quote box.)
Please direct your attention to the Reply button at the bottom of each post. It is beside the Reply With Quote button. If one presses it while viewing the OP, a textbox appears in which one can post in, allowing one to post without addressing the end of the conversation.
(Please note: I am currently addressing you, Chev. You can tell, because it is your name in the quote box.)
I love you.
Uh, yes? I'm not entirely sure what you're trying to say. The OP made a suggestion. I criticised it. If it were the default, OP would hardly be suggesting it, now would s/he?
Re-read the OP. It advocates a ruleset restricting people from making 'rude' comments, regardless of intention, or specific reference to grammar/style. Rudeness, unless blatantly intentional, is subjective, meaning to enforce such a rule we would resort to never commenting. It takes an incredibly hard line stance on grammar, interpreting any comment as 'trolling', and it advocates the banning of image macros (as the '50', as already pointed out, is almost certainly hyperbole). If the OP were to be followed by the letter, it would not be far off from the ruleset I presented.
I chose the answers closest to the lovechild between a white supremacist and a gangster.
Can we just skip to the end and make "Do not directly address another member unless you are either agreeing with them, complimenting them or answering a fact-based question" a rule? We can have "inane smalltalk is allowed in the Spamzone" as a minor exception.
I'm certain I put you down as Caucasian...
This girl knows her stuff. Real men isntitpretty all day, erry day.
Visit the Skype room. It's rather fun if there are enough people.
I slump against the side of the stairway. I don't want to let them see my body or my failure. I don't want to hear their scornful taunting. The twins always dance around, prodding my belly, asking when I'm due. The others either treat me as an unwanted pet, feeding me and doing their duties as according to the lord's wishes, or they make sport of me, treating me as they do wandering humans. In a way it's good. So long as I am not acknowledged, I can know for certain that I haven't completely succumbed to the insanity of this place. I can still be human, if I try hard enough.
My ears prick up as I hear the master's voice echo through the stairwell, as though the mansion itself were his mouth. The announcement of a guest. It's been so long since the last one... I can hardly remember what happened. But, when I look at my bulbous body, I think I know what I need to do to become human. That guest is the key.
With renewed vigor, I purposefully avoid my room. Instead, I make my way through the rest of the mansion. Every room I visit is devoid of human life. The occasional rat still scuttles about, but today I pay little heed to them. For the first time in a while, I feel no inclination to hunt them down, and besides, I have a target of far more import.
Eventually I arrive at the door to the hall. My stomach brushes against the door as push it open a crack and peer through. There they all are, the lord, the butler, the twins and the maid. I barely register that Belle is absent. Instead I focus on the victim. There she is. She's older than me in appearance, and her figure would be imposing. In fact, I can almost certainly say that I would dislike her and even fear her, were the roles not the way they are. Instead, I can only feel pity: pity for the maiden, soon to be soiled, consumed and thrown away.
But she's more than just someone to be pitied. She's my humanity, and my chance. My chance to prove once and for all that I am not a beast, that I don't belong here. If I can save her, an innocent human, from this fate, I'm certain I can save myself.
With all my might I hurl open the door and run towards the victim, crying out to her to turn back.
Awesome, this thing's getting underway.
In a brief defence of my quirk, here is a conversation, copied straight from the pesterlogs.
-- pikaPower [PP] began pestering crimsonBallad [CB] at 16:30 --
[04:30] PP: Hey you.
[04:30] CB: Yo.
[04:31] PP: Something amazing has happened to me.
[04:31] PP: I've discovered a game that I can play!
[04:31] CB: What happened Scott? Or is it James today? Blah, your alter egos are cofusing. x__x
[04:32] CB: And which game is it?
[04:32] PP: I'm feeling distinctly unnamed today.
[04:33] PP: And it is a most superb game.
[04:33] PP: Game of the year, you might say.
[04:33] PP: It's really, really, really good.
[04:34] CB: Hmm, well I have been busy playing Persona, and have almost reached the conclusion, so I would likely be willing to pick this up? What is it about? o:
[04:34] PP: You're this guy.
[04:34] PP: And you have a problem with your heart.
[04:35] PP: And there's this girl. She kinda causes the problem, but it was always there in the first place.
[04:35] PP: Anyway, you don't see her again. At least, not at the point where I am.
[04:35] CB: Interesting.
[04:35] PP: You get sent to a completely different place.
[04:36] PP: There's this one person with a strange, metal leg.
[04:37] PP: And it's called Katawa Shoujo.
[04:39] CB: OH MY GOD AHSGDSHFVMAF
[04:39] CB: I have been wanting to play that for a while now. ;___;
[04:40] CB: Though I'll just get a friend from that kingdom hearts fansite to send me the download. She will also probably make fun of me for falling asleep as it downloads. Like always, sigh.
[04:42] PP: You're aware it's free, right?
[04:42] CB: In that case I shall download it immediately.
[04:47] PP: http://katawa-shoujo.com/download.php
[04:47] PP: Tada.
[04:47] PP: I am amazing.
[05:15] -- pikaPower [PP] ceased pestering crimsonBallad [CB] at 17:15 --
I think It'd work. But hey, if it has to go, it has to go. :/
No, not ****bag.
Profanity filters make conversations with you a matter of guesswork.
Kind of like your junk
The last person to call me that was born with a penis. Therefore, you also have a penis.
The article is incredibly coy with the circumstances surrounding the spraying. Did the child object? Did the teacher force it upon him? Did she do it suddenly, without warning?
A teacher spraying a child with air-freshener is of no consequence or importance; the matter at stake is the student's personal wishes and thoughts on the matter. Instead, the fact of the spraying itself is being debated. That is the true worry in this report.
[Then I remember that this time of year has one of the highest break-up rates, and I smile.]
There's a central chat and such. It has text and voice. If we want to do video, we have to make excursions to Tinychat or Synctube.
Send a friend request to me and I'll add you in. (In theory, click here to auto-join.)
Alternatively, anyone else in the convo can also add you in. /derp
IRC is like Skype in that it usually requires downloading, but it has the downside of being more complicated and lacking voice chat.
BTW, Fork, you got a Skype?
My day starts off in the worst way possible: I wake up. When I went to sleep last night in my chambers, it was the end of the eighth I had gone without eating. I'd managed to dispose of most of my food some way or another. The twins, for the most part, were happy enough to take my extras, and I managed to deceive the eyes of Daxiom, the butler. These last few months, he almost seems to have been preoccupied with something else. It made my self-imposed starvation much easier, to say the least. Why do I keep trying to die? I'm not entirely sure. I guess it's the last thing I can do. The only thing I can do to prove that I'm still alive, that I still exist. Ironically, it's this desire that gives me the strength to get up every morning and go about my day. If I put up this small resistance, I can continue to endure. I can wake up and bear to open my eyes.
So I do.
At first, everything is normal for a day like this; everything is covered in a layer of ice, and a thin mist hangs in the air. The morning chill, which used to bite so deeply, has become a dull reminder, like an ingrown toenail. No, what was odd isn't the cold; it's the warmth. Specifically, the warmth in my hands. My bed is also intolerably hard, even taking into account the frost. I blink, dislodging the flecks of ice clogging my vision. Slowly, I make out another colour, mixed in with the blue-white hue of the frost. A deep weight fills my stomach, an unavoidable sense of dread. I berate myself inwardly for thinking that this could go any differently. It happened last time. And the time before that. And the time before that. And the time before that, I nearly ate the master. I'm putting it off. I don't want to make the realisation. I try to think of something else, to go back to sleep, to do anything. But by the time I make such a conclusion, I already know it's too late.
I am not in my room. I am in the dungeon, and my hands are deep inside the chest of a captive, wrapped around his pulsating organs. His intestines trail out of his gut, into my mouth, down to my expanding stomach, like some grotesque, oversized spaghetti. I push him away and retch. My body doesn't let me spit it out. It sucks greedily, ripping the last of the trail out of the body, into me. I stumble out of the cell, leaving the half-dead man lying there. Mercifully, he seems to have passed out. Fearing for the worst, I turn to survey the rest of the dungeon. The captives are clutching the bars of their cages, staring wordlessly at me. I breath a sigh of relief. Then I turn. Two cells are splattered with blood, bone and remnants of hair. My stomach hangs off of me in a bulbous fashion, testament to my unholy feast. Gripping the banister of the spiral stairwell for support, I begin to haul myself up, closer to my room, and further from salvation.