4 new ones from John

[ThePenguin]

Originally Posted by Jyqm

Incredible to think that one might convey the tone and tenor of one's writing through diction, phrasing, and punctuation, huh?

Indeed! I suppose that may be something of a lost art.

-Lis

[johndoe]

Originally Posted by ThePenguin

Indeed! I suppose that may be something of a lost art.

-Lis

That sentence would have been like 520359372450938475x better if you ended it with a smiley.

[ThePenguin]

Originally Posted by johndoe

That sentence would have been like 520359372450938475x better if you ended it with a smiley.

LOL I know, I guess many of us are so used to relying on them. But i shall refrain. !

-Lis

[amber]

Originally Posted by Jyqm

Incredible to think that one might convey the tone and tenor of one's writing through diction, phrasing, and punctuation, huh?

Stuff it, Jyqm.

[SteveMacD]

Originally Posted by Jyqm

Incredible to think that one might convey the tone and tenor of one's writing through diction, phrasing, and punctuation, huh?

Oh great Jyqm, you just had to hurt the smiley's feelings.



You, sir, are on notice.

[kenzo]

Originally Posted by Jyqm

Incredible to think that one might convey the tone and tenor of one's writing through diction, phrasing, and punctuation, huh?

Yes, that 'huh' you appended was the encore performance of a sentence for which no one applauded.

[Mari]

Bass-players are cool. It's official now. It's a law. If you look up 'cool' in the dictionary, it should say 'bass-player'.

[Jyqm]

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin?

[Jyqm]

. . . . . who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. -- Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.

[Mari]

^