[Note to readers: Some of the material contained within is absolutely, 100% incorrect. By "some" I mean "the stuff I linked to," not the bit about me being an asshole. Which I am, as this post proves. Sorry all, the next round's on me.]
Not every article bears great fruit. Sometimes, it blossoms rotten. Doesn't matter how you approach it, you'll be gagging by the end. Case in point.
Now you'd think people would recognize it as such. You'd think they'd read it, be offended, and realize that no response could escape its gravitational stupidity. Anyone could transform that "argument" into a blanket condemnation of whomever they wanted for whatever the reason. As thinking folk, we should recognize that feint for the trap it is and Fuck that! I got me enemies!
I'll use any excuse to vent sense into their breathables. That'll learn 'em how to think differently 'bout things what ain't the things that article reckons.
Must every poor excuse for an argument by someone you disagree with metamorphose into a whirl of unthinking self-congratulation? How many times can "You're so right!" appear on the same page before someone's hay-fever acts up? You send that many allergens flying and someone's bound to not stop sneezing.
I know, I know. Who am I to deny people pleasure? Why not let 'em feel good about themselves for a change? What can I say?
In this world, there are nice people and there are assholes.
I reckon you can guess my affiliation.
P.S. I had a much different post planned for this evening. A followup to the previous two, in which I'd to consider the status of the literary text and why it deserved the special treatment I'd afford it now that it's divorced from theories of cognition. I even whipped out my copy of Literary Interest, eager as I was to bounce my new theory off Knapp's.
Then I remembered that literature's no more than an excuse for communal back-patting—a bonding ritual which ensures the survival of the pack by validating the efficacy of its idols ...