Trolled into a writing a thesis with a screenshot and three words. This is why you
always lose. FYI you didn't even manage to correctly debunk the paper. This is because you're incapable of entry-level grade 9 Mathematics. Instead of attacking the science, you should have attacked the percentage change increase, because even a substantial increase on fuck all is still fuck all which renders the findings ostensibly meaningless. The fact that it didn't even occur to you to attack the data along these lines is proof positive that you're exceptionally stupid. I'd be surprised if it turned out you even graduated from high school. This was in fact the entire point of the exercise. You're so predictable that I know
exactly how to trigger you in the most efficient way possible.
Now let's talk about your homeboy Mowl, who claims to be "Embedded Deeply" on the site. That's possible. What's certain is that there's a holy-man's seed embedded deeply in his bowels--a consequence of his back being blown out by a blubbery Bishop's baby batter. Here it proverbially gestated and ate his soul like weevils on last month's sodden uncollected news, leaving only a sonorous, festering cavity of seethe slithered-over by a Troglafauna of empathic vileness, insecurities, dementedness, and malignity. Did he resist, I wonder? Or did he just take the musky stole's smegma-encrusted cheesewurst like a communion wafer out of obeisant reverence, feigning pleasure out of terror? It does seem improbable he fought back. Even if he had the inclination of spirit for a fight, he'd have lacked the tools for one. Currently, he's built like Kif Kroker (Premmy Baby brought on by alcohol abuse in the surrogate?) and I can't even imagine what he looked like as an adolescent, very much like Voldemort's final form in the Harry Potter series I suppose. A 40KG Golum with slightly better teeth and a pigeon chest. Father Mick likely picked him up bodily in one hairy fist and railed him like a fleshlight, belly-laughing and spluttering his Jameson's breath into his streaming face, groaned his load into him with a sea lion's baritone, filled him full as a twinkie and finally hurled the simpering wreckage like an empty beer can into a nearby wall where several of his birdbones broke, and he slithered under the duchess, black-eyed, trembling and heaving like a cat's rat-plaything that has briefly escaped the claws.
^ See that? Yes, Roc; I can indeed write better than Mowl. This isn't braggadocio, you understand. I am simply establishing that this isn't difficult. The reason I don't write this way more often is because quite frankly it's beneath my ability. Mowl's peak is that which I do not
deign to do. Mowl isn't a creator. Mowl is an extremely demented, heavily-prescribed talentless manlet whose delusions of grandeur are sustained by the attentions of a sycophantic sperg who is, incredibly, an even bigger fucking life-failure than he is, on the least-trafficked Irish political discussion forum on the internet.
He has not produced, in I assume 40 plus years of strenuous effort and diligence,
any Art of
any kind that has
any Commerical value whatsoever. The only time he gets play is if it's some bullshit event subsidized on the public tit.
Welfare music. The kids don't know what his name is. Well, the ones at the park do, after being warned about him by their parents. But it's worse than that. Not only is he not a musician (can't write music anybody wants to listen to or buy) but he isn't even a
player. What session work of
any note can he list in his catalogue of musical achievements? Goose egg. The reason? He fucking
sucks, brah. Can't play out of simple time/ out of impotent Tempos. To be fair, his brittlestar arms limit him to about 60BPM. He is literally a local-pub-tier drummer. Couldn't swing a bucket of shit.
Help me understand something; why, in the name of everliving fuck, do you and David (it's possible you are David) venerate this utterly useless, talentless, cringe, bony 80s throwback skeksis try-hard? This is an earnest question. I don't get it. What are you seeing that I'm not? I don't have to visit Islepoli now that I'm not a Mod (thank Jeebus) but when I did, I could not find a single example of any redeeming virtue or character in this person whatsoever. In not one post, anywhere, did I find him describe himself in the execution of any act that was good for the world, or any other human being or beings at the individual or collective levels. Indeed, I did not encounter any described performance of virtue, morality, or ethics, and seemingly everything he ever talked about was in service to his own onanistic, trivial pursuits of self-gratification. These invariably always related to the appeasement of his own ego. Getting laid (That gummy munter with the synth and self-harm scars he thinks is hot gave me a chuckle, thanks Mowley LOL) name-dropping celebrities who pity-replied to him on twitter seven years ago or whatever. It was just acre after acre of unhinged self-indulgence, selfishness, narcissism, validation-seeking. He has perhaps the worst case of main-character syndrome I have personally ever experienced-- his own hero in every dialogue, always exceptional, always the saviour, the victor, the wit, the Lothario, the victim. Of course, when you look at his life, it is apparent all this is rampant embroidery. Truly bananas. He'll write an extended post on how happy he is, and five minutes later completely lose the rag over some fairly innocuous statement posted on Sarsfield. Spoiler, bro: Genuinely happy people don't need to tell others how happy they are. Genuinely talented people don't need to try and convince others of how talented they are. Genuine chads don't talk about how much they get laid. You're none of those things, and none of those things are happening. This is obvious to literally everybody. You're just making a cunt of yourself.
View attachment 6806
Here's the rub; this person isn't going anywhere. Nowhere good, anyway. He's not even a has-been. He's a never-was. His life is over and time has passed him by. He's a middle-aged mental patient with a script as long as a large family's grocery receipt, living in a shitbox flat with a diseased pet plant, broke as fuck, spending his free time ranting at people on this board who he claims to not respect whilst concomitantly trying his very best to convince them he's better than them in every conceivable way. There will be no fame, no accolades, no fanfare, no celebrity, no public interest. He's already achieved peak-notoriety. And he got there by being raped by a priest. The epitaph of his existence will read: Rapelet.
)
:quality(70)/cloudfront-eu-central-1.images.arcpublishing.com/irishtimes/XKN4PSGIWDRJSXI6NSZHMFMEQQ.jpg)
web.archive.org
www.nature.com
