I read a goddam article and I commented on it with my opinion, alright? Why the hell did you read my goddam letter if you didn't like it? Only fawning agreement with Cary and saying what you like is accepted, is that it? I say what I bloody well like and I like what I bloody well say and if you disagree with me, fine, make some sort of goddam point about what I wrote. But don't pull a Bill O'Reilly and tell me that I can't say what I like or where I should voice my opinion. Your bleating about me voicing my opinion tells me that you're stupid and incapable of making an actual argument, so you bleat and whine about the *existence* of my opinion. Screw you.

Anyone who believed a syllable of this preposterous letter needs a brain transfusion. Good god. Do you all have serious mental issues? Cary is (a) a buffoon, (b) a moron and (c) a cynical, twisted liar. These are not mutually contradictory positions. When he tries to take things seriously, he ends up drunk and incapable and inept. When he tries to answer a serious question, he gets it 180-degrees wrong. So then he lies and makes stupid, hateful nonsense up to meet deadline. It's not a mystery; it's bleedin' obvious to anyone with a functioning synapse or two. Cary is not just stupid, not just clumsy, not just inept, not just lazy, not just a liar, and not just a failure. He is all of those things and so much more.

And his writing is *TERRIBLE*. It's the sort of shite you Anne Lammot wannabies wannabe.

Those are two excellent words.

It's a thankless task to try to figure out what Keillor's latest boring piece of boredom actually means, but, seriously, what is this *about*? There is an entire generation of people that Keillor thinks aren't afraid enough of the next Depression because they don't work all work in factories? And he's better than us or something? What is the actual *point* here and why can't he make it, using words, the way a writer would?

The small Terminal 1, primarily for domestic flights to locations such as Cayo Largo del Sur, features an outdoor waiting area, an oasis of cool grass and birdsong. With, of course, a bar.

Selig has built an effective partnership between owners and players, increased the audience size & spend, seen that baseball adapted early and intelligently to emerging technology, and created the World Baseball Classic.

Yeah, he's mis-stepped on the Direct TV stuff, Interleague play and the tied All-Star Game. But, overall, not bad.

Oh, wait, you interpret the responsibilities of the Office of the Commissioner of Baseball to consist mostly of making up invasive, paternalistic, ex-post-facto rules to fight on a particularly futile front in the Drug War.

"Shut up, Mulder, I'm playing baseball."

miriald, there is NO SUCH THING as "virtual rape". Can we all be clear about this? The charming phrase you coined, "get over it, bitch", makes no sense here because there is NOTHING TO GET OVER. Yes, people can be insulted, harassed, even persecuted online, but there is NOTHING that is in any way analogous to rape that can happen over an internet connection. It is impossible. It is not real. Regina and Tracy are making scare stories up to frighten each other with but even they can't figure out the details of how such a thing as "virtual rape" might actually happen. The reason is that it can't. The whole idea is transparently absurd.

Tracy claims to have "learned" that "virtual characters can force other virtual characters to have sex against their will."

This is simple false. One hundred percent not true. Made up. Regina Lynn knows it's not true. It is gibberish, it is nonsensical, it is utterly fantastic. It cannot be done, period.

I know there's a certain cohort of feminist writers who want to see rape everywhere, but it is simply unconscionable for both writers to trivialize rape and violence by comparing it to a computer game.

Yes, women can be sexually harassed and insulted and intimidated online, with words. But the idea that there is non-consensual sex involving Second Life avatars is so transparently stupid you have to wonder what Regina & Tracy are thinking of.

Maybe you're not as great as you think you are.

Well, yeah, but that's setting the bar pretty low. Have you seen some of the "questions" entertained in this column?

What is *WRONG* with you? Why do you write to Cary Tennis asking permission to do something, and over-think it, and agonize, and whine about it, and gaze at your navel some more? Get on with your life, man.

It's the same letter, over and over and over again. The same damn letter. I want to be X but I'm timid and fearful.

Eunuchs and losers everywhere: A first step in not being timid and fearful is not writing to Salon's milquetoast-in-residence for advice.

Yes, folks, this letter is actually titled "I'm obsessed with being a hipster". Someone, somewhere, with the mental and emotional capacity of a guppy, thought to write to Cary Tennis about this subject. And Cary thought that was a good letter, one of the better ones, and he should pick it out to waffle and maunder towards.

Hasn't the LW *read* Cary Tennis before? Direction and insight are right out. Introspection and writer-manqué rambling are what you get, and you should know that.

Here a writer is asking a good question, a sound one, where a helpful and considerate response would be more than welcome, but it's asked of Cary Tennis, and you might as well ask the cat.

"Oh, your son's ... wow, have you ever looked at your hand? I mean, really looked at it? It's cool, it reminds me of this one time where ..."

The whining! The self-absorption! The twelve-paragraph letter about a petty, boring non-problem of absolutely zero relevance to 99.9% of the population! The hand-wringing, predictable response! Lather, rinse, repeat. What a bore.