New Zealand 2 will deal a massive blow to NZ rugby

[Matua]

Pointed out two times u contradicted yourself in space of a few posts. Something tells me you do that a lot

Except I didn't contradict myself, I can't help it if you can't tell the difference between objective fact and opinion and I can't help it that when it's pointed out to you that you just double down rather than admit you made a mistake.

 

[Pippen94]

Except I didn't contradict myself, I can't help it if you can't tell the difference between objective fact and opinion and I can't help it that when it's pointed out to you that you just double down rather than admit you made a mistake.

No, you got owned. Ur becoming the kiwi perthred

 

[docbrown]

You aren't smart enough to address individual points?

I didn’t even read your individual points because you could have easily replied in a single paragraph but instead you felt the insecure need to split up my one post into a dozen quotes and write a bunch of waffle in response to each individual sentence.

And you call me the moron.

Yes, you are a moron. You think that writing a dozen paragraphs makes you interesting. It doesn’t. You may not have read much Shakespeare but I would refer you to Polonius’ remarks on brevity being the soul of wit.

But I understand

No, you don’t understand, because as I mentioned to you before, you are a moron. And if you’ve read this far, then that it is truly pathetic. Because it would be obvious to anyone with half a brain (which again - is more than what you have) that I am openly mocking your lack of brevity by imitating your own waffling writing style. Right now. As you read this. That’s how much of a joke you are to me.

when it's shown up that your argument is wrong

And again I don’t even know what your argument is because I saw your reply, looked at how long it waffled on and on and for and decided - just as any sane person would do - that it wasn’t even worth reading. And again if you’re reading this now, you’re clearly too stupid to get that your arguments, right or wrong, are simply worthless to me. It’s the fact that that you take them so seriously that amuses me. At this point the only person you are arguing with is yourself.

you have to find a way

I guess now we’re getting to the end of this. If you’re still reading at this point, then you’re a very sad individual. Again it should be totally clear to everyone by now that I am mocking you. And if you’ve just scrolled past all this then congratulations, you’ve entirely proven my point that replying to people the way you do it not worth the effort of people to read what you have to say. Either way, the case is made.

to bail

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.

"Whenever you feel like criticizing any one," he told me, "just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had."

He didn't say any more but we've always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence I'm inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon—for the intimate revelations of young men or at least the terms in which they express them are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.

And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes but after a certain point I don't care what it's founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the "creative temperament"—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.

out

Now I’m just going copying the Great Gatsby by F.Scott Fitzgerald. If you want to keep reading it’s a great book, probably one of the finest pieces of American literature out there. Anyhow I’m going to keep quoting pieces from it and randomly putting in insults about you. See if you can find them all!

some

My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this middle-western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan and we have a tradition that we're descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather's brother who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today.

I never saw this great-uncle but I'm supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in Father's office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm center of the world the middle-west now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go east and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep-school for me and finally said, "Why—ye-es" with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year and after various delays I came east, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.

The practical thing was to find rooms in the city but it was a warm season and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog, at least I had him for a few days until he ran away, and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.

ho

It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.

"How do you get to West Egg village?" he asked helplessly.

I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood.

And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees—just as things grow in fast movies—I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.

There was so much to read for one thing and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the "Yale News"—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the "well-rounded man." This isn't just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.

w.

And as I sat there brooding on the old, unknown world, I thought of Gatsby's wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy's dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther...And one fine morning—

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

 

[Pippen94]

I didn’t even read your individual points because you could have easily replied in a single paragraph but instead you felt the insecure need to split up my one post into a dozen quotes and write a bunch of waffle in response to each individual sentence.


Yes, you are a moron. You think that writing a dozen paragraphs makes you interesting. It doesn’t. You may not have read much Shakespeare but I would refer you to Polonius’ remarks on brevity being the soul of wit.


No, you don’t understand, because as I mentioned to you before, you are a moron. And if you’ve read this far, then that it is truly pathetic. Because it would be obvious to anyone with half a brain (which again - is more than what you have) that I am openly mocking your lack of brevity by imitating your own waffling writing style. Right now. As you read this. That’s how much of a joke you are to me.


And again I don’t even know what your argument is because I saw your reply, looked at how long it waffled on and on and for and decided - just as any sane person would do - that it wasn’t even worth reading. And again if you’re reading this now, you’re clearly too stupid to get that your arguments, right or wrong, are simply worthless to me. It’s the fact that that you take them so seriously that amuses me. At this point the only person you are arguing with is yourself.


I guess now we’re getting to the end of this. If you’re still reading at this point, then you’re a very sad individual. Again it should be totally clear to everyone by now that I am mocking you. And if you’ve just scrolled past all this then congratulations, you’ve entirely proven my point that replying to people the way you do it not worth the effort of people to read what you have to say. Either way, the case is made.


In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.

"Whenever you feel like criticizing any one," he told me, "just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had."

He didn't say any more but we've always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence I'm inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon—for the intimate revelations of young men or at least the terms in which they express them are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.

And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes but after a certain point I don't care what it's founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the "creative temperament"—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.


Now I’m just going copying the Great Gatsby by F.Scott Fitzgerald. If you want to keep reading it’s a great book, probably one of the finest pieces of American literature out there. Anyhow I’m going to keep quoting pieces from it and randomly putting in insults about you. See if you can find them all!


My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this middle-western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan and we have a tradition that we're descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather's brother who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today.

I never saw this great-uncle but I'm supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in Father's office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm center of the world the middle-west now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go east and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep-school for me and finally said, "Why—ye-es" with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year and after various delays I came east, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.

The practical thing was to find rooms in the city but it was a warm season and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog, at least I had him for a few days until he ran away, and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.


It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.

"How do you get to West Egg village?" he asked helplessly.

I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood.

And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees—just as things grow in fast movies—I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.

There was so much to read for one thing and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the "Yale News"—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the "well-rounded man." This isn't just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.


And as I sat there brooding on the old, unknown world, I thought of Gatsby's wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy's dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther...And one fine morning—

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

Lol - that's one way to deal with abusive troll. Well done

 

[Te Kaha]

I didn’t even read your individual points because you could have easily replied in a single paragraph but instead you felt the insecure need to split up my one post into a dozen quotes and write a bunch of waffle in response to each individual sentence.


Yes, you are a moron. You think that writing a dozen paragraphs makes you interesting. It doesn’t. You may not have read much Shakespeare but I would refer you to Polonius’ remarks on brevity being the soul of wit.


No, you don’t understand, because as I mentioned to you before, you are a moron. And if you’ve read this far, then that it is truly pathetic. Because it would be obvious to anyone with half a brain (which again - is more than what you have) that I am openly mocking your lack of brevity by imitating your own waffling writing style. Right now. As you read this. That’s how much of a joke you are to me.


And again I don’t even know what your argument is because I saw your reply, looked at how long it waffled on and on and for and decided - just as any sane person would do - that it wasn’t even worth reading. And again if you’re reading this now, you’re clearly too stupid to get that your arguments, right or wrong, are simply worthless to me. It’s the fact that that you take them so seriously that amuses me. At this point the only person you are arguing with is yourself.


I guess now we’re getting to the end of this. If you’re still reading at this point, then you’re a very sad individual. Again it should be totally clear to everyone by now that I am mocking you. And if you’ve just scrolled past all this then congratulations, you’ve entirely proven my point that replying to people the way you do it not worth the effort of people to read what you have to say. Either way, the case is made.


In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.

"Whenever you feel like criticizing any one," he told me, "just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had."

He didn't say any more but we've always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence I'm inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon—for the intimate revelations of young men or at least the terms in which they express them are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.

And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes but after a certain point I don't care what it's founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the "creative temperament"—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.


Now I’m just going copying the Great Gatsby by F.Scott Fitzgerald. If you want to keep reading it’s a great book, probably one of the finest pieces of American literature out there. Anyhow I’m going to keep quoting pieces from it and randomly putting in insults about you. See if you can find them all!


My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this middle-western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan and we have a tradition that we're descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather's brother who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today.

I never saw this great-uncle but I'm supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in Father's office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm center of the world the middle-west now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go east and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep-school for me and finally said, "Why—ye-es" with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year and after various delays I came east, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.

The practical thing was to find rooms in the city but it was a warm season and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog, at least I had him for a few days until he ran away, and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.


It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.

"How do you get to West Egg village?" he asked helplessly.

I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood.

And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees—just as things grow in fast movies—I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.

There was so much to read for one thing and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the "Yale News"—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the "well-rounded man." This isn't just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.


And as I sat there brooding on the old, unknown world, I thought of Gatsby's wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy's dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther...And one fine morning—

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

That's a hell of a lot of words to admit you're wrong, even when they are a cut and paste.

Imagine spending that much effort to show off....

 

[Stormy weather]

Nzrl simply hasn’t had anything like the funding it needs to take a serious shot at union at jnr and grassroots level. It only has $8mill revenue compared to $188mill nzru has. throw in no fta exposure and Until that changes nothing else will.

Also the huge amount of money the schools independently raise through sponsorship and old boy’s networks.

 

[Matua]

No, you got owned. Ur becoming the kiwi perthred

Why don't you try and contribute something constructive to the thread instead of whining at me due to your failed reading comprehension? Hell even some barely relevant tik toks like your your boy Wb1234 will add more to the thread than your obsession with gotcha-ing me.

I'm done wth this inane backwards and forwards, I look forward to seeing an actual constructive post from you sometime in the thread moving forward.

 

[Wb1234]

Why don't you try and contribute something constructive to the thread instead of whining at me due to your failed reading comprehension? Hell even some barely relevant tik toks like your your boy Wb1234 will add more to the thread than your obsession with gotcha-ing me.

I'm done wth this inane backwards and forwards, I look forward to seeing an actual constructive post from you sometime in the thread moving forward.

TikTok - Make Your Day

vt.tiktok.com

 

[Matua]

TikTok - Make Your Day

vt.tiktok.com

That was disappointing, I thought due to the heading it was going to be a haka from 1947.

 

[Perth Red]

I look forward to seeing an actual constructive post from you sometime in the thread moving forward.

You'll be waiting a long time lol!

 

[docbrown]

That's a hell of a lot of words to admit you're wrong, even when they are a cut and paste.

Imagine spending that much effort to show off....

In 1913, when Anthony Patch was twenty-five, two years were already gone since irony, the Holy Ghost of this later day, had, theoretically at least, descended upon him. Irony was the final polish of the shoe, the ultimate dab of the clothes-brush, a sort of intellectual "There!"—yet at the brink of this story he has as yet gone no further than the conscious stage. As you first see him he wonders frequently whether he is not without honor and slightly mad, a shameful and obscene thinness glistening on the surface of the world like oil on a clean pond, these occasions being varied, of course, with those in which he thinks himself rather an exceptional young man, thoroughly sophisticated, well adjusted to his environment, and somewhat more significant than any one else he knows.

This was his healthy state and it made him cheerful, pleasant, and very attractive to intelligent men and to all women. In this state he considered that he would one day accomplish some quiet subtle thing that the elect would deem worthy and, passing on, would join the dimmer stars in a nebulous, indeterminate heaven half-way between death and immortality. Until the time came for this effort he would be Anthony Patch—not a portrait of a man but a distinct and dynamic personality, opinionated, contemptuous, functioning from within outward—a man who was aware that there could be no honor and yet had honor, who knew the sophistry of courage and yet was brave.

A WORTHY MAN AND HIS GIFTED SON​

Anthony drew as much consciousness of social security from being the grandson of Adam J. Patch as he would have had from tracing his line over the sea to the crusaders. This is inevitable; Virginians and Bostonians to the contrary notwithstanding, an aristocracy founded sheerly on money postulates wealth in the particular.

Now Adam J. Patch, more familiarly known as "Cross Patch," left his father's farm in Tarrytown early in sixty-one to join a New York cavalry regiment. He came home from the war a major, charged into Wall Street, and amid much fuss, fume, applause, and ill will he gathered to himself some seventy-five million dollars.

This occupied his energies until he was fifty-seven years old. It was then that he determined, after a severe attack of sclerosis, to consecrate the remainder of his life to the moral regeneration of the world. He became a reformer among reformers. Emulating the magnificent efforts of Anthony Comstock, after whom his grandson was named, he levelled a varied assortment of uppercuts and body-blows at liquor, literature, vice, art, patent medicines, and Sunday theatres. His mind, under the influence of that insidious mildew which eventually forms on all but the few, gave itself up furiously to every indignation of the age. From an armchair in the office of his Tarrytown estate he directed against the enormous hypothetical enemy, unrighteousness, a campaign which went on through fifteen years, during which he displayed himself a rabid monomaniac, an unqualified nuisance, and an intolerable bore. The year in which this story opens found him wearying; his campaign had grown desultory; 1861 was creeping up slowly on 1895; his thoughts ran a great deal on the Civil War, somewhat on his dead wife and son, almost infinitesimally on his grandson Anthony.

Early in his career Adam Patch had married an anemic lady of thirty, Alicia Withers, who brought him one hundred thousand dollars and an impeccable entré into the banking circles of New York. Immediately and rather spunkily she had borne him a son and, as if completely devitalized by the magnificence of this performance, she had thenceforth effaced herself within the shadowy dimensions of the nursery. The boy, Adam Ulysses Patch, became an inveterate joiner of clubs, connoisseur of good form, and driver of tandems—at the astonishing age of twenty-six he began his memoirs under the title "New York Society as I Have Seen It." On the rumor of its conception this work was eagerly bid for among publishers, but as it proved after his death to be immoderately verbose and overpoweringly dull, it never obtained even a private printing.

This Fifth Avenue Chesterfield married at twenty-two. His wife was Henrietta Lebrune, the Boston "Society Contralto," and the single child of the union was, at the request of his grandfather, christened Anthony Comstock Patch. When he went to Harvard, the Comstock dropped out of his name to a nether hell of oblivion and was never heard of thereafter.

Young Anthony had one picture of his father and mother together—so often had it faced his eyes in childhood that it had acquired the impersonality of furniture, but every one who came into his bedroom regarded it with interest. It showed a dandy of the nineties, spare and handsome, standing beside a tall dark lady with a muff and the suggestion of a bustle. Between them was a little boy with long brown curls, dressed in a velvet Lord Fauntleroy suit. This was Anthony at five, the year of his mother's death.

His memories of the Boston Society Contralto were nebulous and musical. She was a lady who sang, sang, sang, in the music room of their house on Washington Square—sometimes with guests scattered all about her, the men with their arms folded, balanced breathlessly on the edges of sofas, the women with their hands in their laps, occasionally making little whispers to the men and always clapping very briskly and uttering cooing cries after each song—and often she sang to Anthony alone, in Italian or French or in a strange and terrible dialect which she imagined to be the speech of the Southern negro.

His recollections of the gallant Ulysses, the first man in America to roll the lapels of his coat, were much more vivid. After Henrietta Lebrune Patch had "joined another choir," as her widower huskily remarked from time to time, father and son lived up at grampa's in Tarrytown, and Ulysses came daily to Anthony's nursery and expelled pleasant, thick-smelling words for sometimes as much as an hour. He was continually promising Anthony hunting trips and fishing trips and excursions to Atlantic City, "oh, some time soon now"; but none of them ever materialized. One trip they did take; when Anthony was eleven they went abroad, to England and Switzerland, and there in the best hotel in Lucerne his father died with much sweating and grunting and crying aloud for air. In a panic of despair and terror Anthony was brought back to America, wedded to a vague melancholy that was to stay beside him through the rest of his life.

PAST AND PERSON OF THE HERO​

At eleven he had a horror of death. Within six impressionable years his parents had died and his grandmother had faded off almost imperceptibly, until, for the first time since her marriage, her person held for one day an unquestioned supremacy over her own drawing room. So to Anthony life was a struggle against death, that waited at every corner. It was as a concession to his hypochondriacal imagination that he formed the habit of reading in bed—it soothed him. He read until he was tired and often fell asleep with the lights still on.

 

[Ride the Lion to Zion]

Lol, up until a few weeks ago he was a moderator!!
He's a knowledge poster, just needs to remember to have fun here

Didn't like to ask at the time lest it provoke further blasts from the Kiwi charm school.

A week on, and curiosity has got the better of me -

What exactly is a "knowledge poster"?

 

[The Great Dane]

I didn’t even read your individual points because you could have easily replied in a single paragraph but instead you felt the insecure need to split up my one post into a dozen quotes and write a bunch of waffle in response to each individual sentence.


Yes, you are a moron. You think that writing a dozen paragraphs makes you interesting. It doesn’t. You may not have read much Shakespeare but I would refer you to Polonius’ remarks on brevity being the soul of wit.


No, you don’t understand, because as I mentioned to you before, you are a moron. And if you’ve read this far, then that it is truly pathetic. Because it would be obvious to anyone with half a brain (which again - is more than what you have) that I am openly mocking your lack of brevity by imitating your own waffling writing style. Right now. As you read this. That’s how much of a joke you are to me.

A thought or idea being presented inarticulately, or without wit, doesn't necessarily make it incorrect.

The fact that you think that it does, or that a lack of wit means you're above addressing a person's concerns, and will proudly and publicly confess to such backwards elitist ideals, suggests to me that you're in no position to be accusing others of lacking intelligence.

 

[Te Kaha]

In 1913, when Anthony Patch was twenty-five, two years were already gone since irony, the Holy Ghost of this later day, had, theoretically at least, descended upon him. Irony was the final polish of the shoe, the ultimate dab of the clothes-brush, a sort of intellectual "There!"—yet at the brink of this story he has as yet gone no further than the conscious stage. As you first see him he wonders frequently whether he is not without honor and slightly mad, a shameful and obscene thinness glistening on the surface of the world like oil on a clean pond, these occasions being varied, of course, with those in which he thinks himself rather an exceptional young man, thoroughly sophisticated, well adjusted to his environment, and somewhat more significant than any one else he knows.

This was his healthy state and it made him cheerful, pleasant, and very attractive to intelligent men and to all women. In this state he considered that he would one day accomplish some quiet subtle thing that the elect would deem worthy and, passing on, would join the dimmer stars in a nebulous, indeterminate heaven half-way between death and immortality. Until the time came for this effort he would be Anthony Patch—not a portrait of a man but a distinct and dynamic personality, opinionated, contemptuous, functioning from within outward—a man who was aware that there could be no honor and yet had honor, who knew the sophistry of courage and yet was brave.

A WORTHY MAN AND HIS GIFTED SON​

Anthony drew as much consciousness of social security from being the grandson of Adam J. Patch as he would have had from tracing his line over the sea to the crusaders. This is inevitable; Virginians and Bostonians to the contrary notwithstanding, an aristocracy founded sheerly on money postulates wealth in the particular.

Now Adam J. Patch, more familiarly known as "Cross Patch," left his father's farm in Tarrytown early in sixty-one to join a New York cavalry regiment. He came home from the war a major, charged into Wall Street, and amid much fuss, fume, applause, and ill will he gathered to himself some seventy-five million dollars.

This occupied his energies until he was fifty-seven years old. It was then that he determined, after a severe attack of sclerosis, to consecrate the remainder of his life to the moral regeneration of the world. He became a reformer among reformers. Emulating the magnificent efforts of Anthony Comstock, after whom his grandson was named, he levelled a varied assortment of uppercuts and body-blows at liquor, literature, vice, art, patent medicines, and Sunday theatres. His mind, under the influence of that insidious mildew which eventually forms on all but the few, gave itself up furiously to every indignation of the age. From an armchair in the office of his Tarrytown estate he directed against the enormous hypothetical enemy, unrighteousness, a campaign which went on through fifteen years, during which he displayed himself a rabid monomaniac, an unqualified nuisance, and an intolerable bore. The year in which this story opens found him wearying; his campaign had grown desultory; 1861 was creeping up slowly on 1895; his thoughts ran a great deal on the Civil War, somewhat on his dead wife and son, almost infinitesimally on his grandson Anthony.

Early in his career Adam Patch had married an anemic lady of thirty, Alicia Withers, who brought him one hundred thousand dollars and an impeccable entré into the banking circles of New York. Immediately and rather spunkily she had borne him a son and, as if completely devitalized by the magnificence of this performance, she had thenceforth effaced herself within the shadowy dimensions of the nursery. The boy, Adam Ulysses Patch, became an inveterate joiner of clubs, connoisseur of good form, and driver of tandems—at the astonishing age of twenty-six he began his memoirs under the title "New York Society as I Have Seen It." On the rumor of its conception this work was eagerly bid for among publishers, but as it proved after his death to be immoderately verbose and overpoweringly dull, it never obtained even a private printing.

This Fifth Avenue Chesterfield married at twenty-two. His wife was Henrietta Lebrune, the Boston "Society Contralto," and the single child of the union was, at the request of his grandfather, christened Anthony Comstock Patch. When he went to Harvard, the Comstock dropped out of his name to a nether hell of oblivion and was never heard of thereafter.

Young Anthony had one picture of his father and mother together—so often had it faced his eyes in childhood that it had acquired the impersonality of furniture, but every one who came into his bedroom regarded it with interest. It showed a dandy of the nineties, spare and handsome, standing beside a tall dark lady with a muff and the suggestion of a bustle. Between them was a little boy with long brown curls, dressed in a velvet Lord Fauntleroy suit. This was Anthony at five, the year of his mother's death.

His memories of the Boston Society Contralto were nebulous and musical. She was a lady who sang, sang, sang, in the music room of their house on Washington Square—sometimes with guests scattered all about her, the men with their arms folded, balanced breathlessly on the edges of sofas, the women with their hands in their laps, occasionally making little whispers to the men and always clapping very briskly and uttering cooing cries after each song—and often she sang to Anthony alone, in Italian or French or in a strange and terrible dialect which she imagined to be the speech of the Southern negro.

His recollections of the gallant Ulysses, the first man in America to roll the lapels of his coat, were much more vivid. After Henrietta Lebrune Patch had "joined another choir," as her widower huskily remarked from time to time, father and son lived up at grampa's in Tarrytown, and Ulysses came daily to Anthony's nursery and expelled pleasant, thick-smelling words for sometimes as much as an hour. He was continually promising Anthony hunting trips and fishing trips and excursions to Atlantic City, "oh, some time soon now"; but none of them ever materialized. One trip they did take; when Anthony was eleven they went abroad, to England and Switzerland, and there in the best hotel in Lucerne his father died with much sweating and grunting and crying aloud for air. In a panic of despair and terror Anthony was brought back to America, wedded to a vague melancholy that was to stay beside him through the rest of his life.

PAST AND PERSON OF THE HERO​

At eleven he had a horror of death. Within six impressionable years his parents had died and his grandmother had faded off almost imperceptibly, until, for the first time since her marriage, her person held for one day an unquestioned supremacy over her own drawing room. So to Anthony life was a struggle against death, that waited at every corner. It was as a concession to his hypochondriacal imagination that he formed the habit of reading in bed—it soothed him. He read until he was tired and often fell asleep with the lights still on.

Most of the idiots on here when they know they are wrong, but can't admit it, simply take the cowards way out and put me on ignore... but you... So desperate for attention you resort to this instead?... wow..

 

[Pippen94]

Didn't like to ask at the time lest it provoke further blasts from the Kiwi charm school.

A week on, and curiosity has got the better of me -

What exactly is a "knowledge poster"?

I was just being nice in hope he'd become more civil, but since then he said it's OK to be abusive to ppl online because it's not his "real" life persona. Just like its OK to abuse celebrities & others on social media because it's all not real I guess..?!

 

[Te Kaha]

I was just being nice in hope he'd become more civil, but since then he said it's OK to be abusive to ppl online because it's not his "real" life persona. Just like its OK to abuse celebrities & others on social media because it's all not real I guess..?!

Ahhh another lie from you. Matua is right, you have comprehension issues and can't read what is actually on the screen. or you just flat out lie.

 

[214Four]

I enjoy both RL and RU and it would p1ss me off to see the nrl attacking RU and/or its administration making decisions with a key strategic goal of 'taking over' RU or its demise...
Just like it p1ssed me off back in 2003 when the boss of the ARU attacked RL and was publicly envisioning the codes demise after the successful rugby world cup...
and just like when the AFL decided to put a team in Western Sydney for the strategic goal of taking over the market, it p1ssed me oft seeing large swathes of the afl community and media attack and belittle the nrl (and soccer) bragging of the codes demise..

And as evident with the colossal failures of both the ARU and AFLs examples above... the problem with the 'taking over' kind of attitude, is they backfire hard.

I agree that a 2nd team in new Zealand is needed, but not because it may harm the success and hold that RU has in nz, no. But simply because with the amount of talent Nz Produces, the country and its RL players and fans deserve it

 

[Wb1234]

I enjoy both RL and RU and it would p1ss me off to see the nrl attacking RU and/or its administration making decisions with a key strategic goal of 'taking over' RU or its demise...
Just like it p1ssed me off back in 2003 when the boss of the ARU attacked RL and was publicly envisioning the codes demise after the successful rugby world cup...
and just like when the AFL decided to put a team in Western Sydney for the strategic goal of taking over the market, it p1ssed me oft seeing large swathes of the afl community and media attack and belittle the nrl (and soccer) bragging of the codes demise..

And as evident with the colossal failures of both the ARU and AFLs examples above... the problem with the 'taking over' kind of attitude, is they backfire hard.

I agree that a 2nd team in new Zealand is needed, but not because it may harm the success and hold that RU has in nz, no. But simply because with the amount of talent Nz Produces, the country and its RL players and fans deserve it

Which is well and good but rugby union has history

 

[214Four]

We have history too...

All I'm trying to get at is careful what you wish for. It don't matter if its war or peace time, the intellectual field or the sporting arena.. NO BODY LIKES DISRESPECT FROM OUTSIDERS.

icannot see it ending in any other way but negatively if the NRL went down that route with RU in NZ

 

[Wb1234]

We have history too...

All I'm trying to get at is careful what you wish for. NO BODY LIKES DISRESPECT FROM OUTSIDERS. Doesn't matter if its war, the intellectual field or on the sorting field. I cannot see it ending in any other way but negatively if the NRL went down that route with RU in NZ

i

No league has no history doing it
After ww1 union had died in qld

Harry sunderland as boss of the qrl hosted rugby league matches and gave the money to union so it could start again after it has died off