The Internet Is A Playground Part 35

Scott Dunning-Kruger effect poster boy When not appearing as poster boy for the Dunning-Kruger effect, Scott divides his time between eating and "writing" on his beige blog, attempting to prove to the world that everything I write is fake.

From: Scott Redmond Scott Redmond Date: Friday 17 September 2010 2:11 p.m. Friday 17 September 2010 2:11 p.m.

To: David Thorne David Thorne Subject: Fake Fake

Davey Davey Davey. You let the ball slip on this one. Your article about George from West Virginia calling you a foggot must be fake because you are in Australia which is 13 hours and 30 minutes ahead of West Virginia. Seeing as you would use your local time in your e-mails, this would mean George would be awake and writing e-mails at 5:21 am, 8:38am, 11:48pm, and 1:32am unless you have a time machine.

Scott From: David Thorne David Thorne Date: Friday 17 September 2010 2:44 p.m. Friday 17 September 2010 2:44 p.m.

To: Scott Redmond Scott Redmond Subject: Re: Fake Re: Fake

Dear Scott,

Thank you for sharing the results of your time zone research. While some might describe your behavior as obsessive, I prefer to think of you as special. Like one of those children that spins until they vomit or collects Pogs. Despite having n.o.body to play Pogs with. Although I am currently in the U.S., rendering your blunt point less pointy, I do, coincidentally, own a time machine.

My time machine is shaped like a closet. I discovered its capabilities purely by accident one day when I climbed in, sat there for a bit, and emerged to find myself in the future. Which is almost exactly like the present except a little darker. I was expecting to see robots and flying cars, but there weren't any. If I had a flying car, I would fly to your house and say, "Look, Scott, I have a flying car; I would love to take you for a ride, but unfortunately, your weight exceeds that of future antigravity propulsion technologies." You would probably become irrational with envy and attempt to catch me, but due to what few leg muscles you have, atrophied from too many hours spent on the computer researching world time zones, you wouldn't be able to jump very high, and I would hover just a few inches above your sausage-like finger flailing.

While I have not yet been successful in my attempts to travel backward in time, only forward, if I climb into the closet backward, this will probably work. I plan on traveling back to the year 2009 to see what it was like before continuing my journey back to your grade seven cla.s.s and explaining to a young Scott Mintred that while his current metabolism may be able to cope with forty Twinkies per day and an exercise routine consisting of breathing and blinking, it is patently going to catch up with him later in life. I will also attempt to explain that time spent on obsessive jealousy is time that would be better spent exploring his own capabilities. I will then give him a slap.

I have attached a drawing of my time machine should you wish to build your own in order to travel back several hours to construct a better argument, or several years, to take up jogging.

Regards, David

From: Scott Redmond Scott Redmond Date: Friday 17 September 2010 4:27 p.m. Friday 17 September 2010 4:27 p.m.

To: David Thorne David Thorne Subject: Re: Re: Fake Re: Re: Fake

Lolcats5000. Your nonsense and lies prove nothing. I'm easily twice as intelligent as you are, I'm not fat and at least the stories on my blog are factual. Should it make for less interesting reading, then so be it. You should do some research on time travel before you make a fool of yourself. To travel through time you need to travel faster than the speed of light. A closet can't move. If I built a time machine I'd do the world a favor and go back in time and stop your mother from reproducing.

Scott

From: David Thorne David Thorne Date: Friday 17 September 2010 5:12 p.m. Friday 17 September 2010 5:12 p.m.

To: Scott Redmond Scott Redmond Subject: Re: Re: Re: Fake Re: Re: Re: Fake

Dear Scott,

Your attempt to convince my mother not to procreate would be unsuccessful, as I would simply go back a few minutes before you appeared and tell her not to listen to men wearing elastic waistband pants. I would also hide behind a tree until you showed up and give you a slap as you waddled past.

While it would be irresponsible for me to condone your obsessive behavior, I do understand it. When I was in grade three, I was obsessed with a girl named Emma Jenkins. As neither of us knew cursive, I sought to impress her by tracing several pages of script from an old ma.n.u.script and, stating that it was a love letter and I had known cursive since the age of two, presented it to her. That night, Emma's father rang my mother with instructions that I was not to communicate with their seven-year-old daughter again. Either socially, or via letters describing her child-bearing hips and round Victorian b.u.t.tocks. Another time, obsessively jealous of the fact Bradley McPherson had been selected to play the lead role in our fifth-grade school play, I constructed a plan to make him ill. Figuring this would automatically give me his role of King of the Faeiries and someone else would take over mine as tree number two, I collected several snot-laden tissues from my flu-ridden sister's bedside table and took them to school the next day. With a thin film of the mucus covering my hands, I demonstrated to Bradley the correct procedure for shaking hands before betting him that he could not fit a whole fist in his mouth. Unfortunately, while Bradley was fine the night of the play, I was not. Unable to find a replacement for tree number two and dosed up with half a bottle of Robitussin and several flu tablets, I managed to fulfill my role of standing still with my arms held up for about ten minutes before inexplicably deciding it would be appropriate to sing "The Safety Dance," by Men Without Hats. Luckily, Emma, dressed as a giant mushroom, broke my fall as I pa.s.sed out.

Although, going by your argument, you have just e-mailed me at 2:57 a.m., meaning your e-mail must be fabricated, I accept your critical a.n.a.lysis of my design and have attached a modified version incorporating your technical and personal requirements.

Regards, David

From: Scott Redmond Scott Redmond Date: Friday 17 September 2010 5:31 p.m. Friday 17 September 2010 5:31 p.m.

To: David Thorne David Thorne Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fake Re: Re: Re: Re: Fake

I don't like Wesley jacka.s.s and you really aren't the sharpest knife in the drawer are you, if I told your mother not to reproduce you wouldn't exist to go back and talk to her. Coup de grace.

From: David Thorne David Thorne Date: Friday 17 September 2010 5:40 p.m. Friday 17 September 2010 5:40 p.m.

To: Scott Redmond Scott Redmond Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fake Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fake

Dear Scott,

If you had managed to persuade my mother not to procreate, I would not exist to send you the plans for constructing your own time machine in which to travel back in time to persuade my mother not to procreate. Apparently, this is known as a pair of ducks. I have no idea why but a.s.sume it alludes to the fact that if a duck were capable of constructing a time machine and traveling back in time to meet itself, there would be two of them. One would probably need to wear a hat or something to avoid confusion. If I did go back in time and meet myself, I would have a good look at the back of my head. If you went back in time and met yourself, you would have someone to play Pogs with.

From: Scott Redmond Scott Redmond Date: Friday 17 September 2010 6:12 p.m. Friday 17 September 2010 6:12 p.m.

To: David Thorne David Thorne Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fake Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fake

I'd go back in time and punch you in the back of your head.

From: David Thorne David Thorne Date: Friday 17 September 2010 6:15 p.m. Friday 17 September 2010 6:15 p.m.

To: Scott Redmond Scott Redmond Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fake Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fake

Dear Scott,

I would travel back five seconds prior to you doing so and tell myself to duck.

Regards, David

From: Scott Redmond Scott Redmond Date: Friday 17 September 2010 6:27 p.m. Friday 17 September 2010 6:27 p.m.

To: David Thorne David Thorne Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fake Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fake

I'd just go back 5 seconds before that and punch you in the back of your head before you tell the other you to duck.

From: David Thorne David Thorne Date: Friday 17 September 2010 6:34 p.m. Friday 17 September 2010 6:34 p.m.

To: Scott Redmond Scott Redmond Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fake Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fake

Dear Scott,

I would travel back five seconds prior to that and tell both my other selves to duck. Perhaps that is where the term "pair of ducks" originated.

Regards, David From: Scott Redmond Scott Redmond Date: Friday 17 September 2010 6:48 p.m. Friday 17 September 2010 6:48 p.m.

To: David Thorne David Thorne Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fake Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fake