Dogs might return to their vomit, but it’s generally accepted that they’re more of a slave to their instincts than humans ought to be. We should know better. It’s even less advisable to return to someone else’s vomit—unless you’re a school caretaker with some fresh sawdust, of course—but GiantWeazle pointed me to a something on The Quiet Chap’s blog thing and I couldn’t resist adding a few penn’orth. More fool me, of course, as the fellow then exploded in a fashion that I suppose I should’ve expected.
You can argue back and forth, of course, about the rights and wrongs of Iranian, US and UK human-rights abuses and the now-fading crisis over the detained soldiers, but: “poisonous little missives under whatever rock you slithered out from?” Did anyone else blink at that? It’s also news to me that I ought to have let the Quiet One know that I called him an illiterate buffoon a few days ago. Really? I must have missed that memo. Actually, what to do when calling someone a buffoon might have been discussed somewhere in the WordPress licence: I had my houseboy read mine for me, which in retrospect was probably a mistake.
I’d have mentioned all this sooner, but along with an alternately busy and sicky Easter (see? see? the cut-and-thrust of this debate is ruining my health!) I had no inkling of a silent explosion, happening but a hair’s breadth away in standard internetical units. I have it on good authority that if you’re accusing someone of slithering then you have to leave a note on their blog. Such a comment was sadly lacking in this case; otherwise I’d have got over there double-sharp, head-cold or otherwise. I’d have raised myself to my full height in umbrage, taken a deep breath and by gum, I would’ve had to sit down again with my head spinning.
I’m sure that that omission of necessary notification constitutes a breach of both the requirements that Quite-quite places on others, and on Senator Joe O’Reilly’s unintentional hilarity, but I’ll let it pass as dear old Quiet might not even be running WordPress: the licence with its buffoon clauses is hard to stumble across on the open internets. But he’s free to contact my houseboy for further details and a julep.
He might want to wait, though. This terribly complicated business of who comments where and who calls another thick freaks when will no doubt be all straightened out once we get given our regulation badges from the House Unblogospherical Activities Commission. I can safely say that, if you display one of those sticks of dynamite alongside your newly-minted Thogger, the canny visitor will know precisely what sort of content you’re likely to produce.