This came up today at school, and it fits quite nicely here.

The moral of the story? We can scream and cry and hate UDE all we want, but it will do no good.

The best way to bring Vs. System into the future is to keep shining the light of love on the game we all adore.

You know as well as I do the saying is "love the player, hate the game".

Aesop, be damned!

Slow and steady wins the race. I always knew you were a rabbit.

Slow and Steady does not win any race I've ever heard of.

Platitudes have very little value in real life.

"There's no I in team, but there are four in Platitude-Spouting Idiot!"

I hope you are joking. Life is not a sprint. Platitudes allow the individual to maintain attitudes that lead to soul-enriching satisfaction, rather than the instant gratification promised by short-sighted "races".

If you have really never heard of any race won by the tortoise, then you are setting yourself up for a very miserable existence.

Aesop simply chose an inaccurate metaphor. Tortoises win contests, but they lose every race, every time.

Aesop wasn't Jebus. It's okay to call him out for being a tard every once in a while.

Enlightenment ignores semantics, but I see your point.

No, you just know all your mom's cute little nicknames for me (although I'm not sure how cute that one actually is...).

I always though Aesop was trying to make that "special" little nephew of his feel better with those little tales... whatever works, I guess.

Let's see... moms and the handicapped... anything else I'm missing the hate on here? Oh yeah, UDE...

...but since they're getting plenty of that already, I'll leave your rainbow be (for the moment).

Yep, she said you were "quick".

Slow and steady wins the woman.

Woman? We were talking about your mom. :)

Happy Holidays, stubarnes!

Oops. Sorry.

Slow and steady wins the goddess.

Happy Holidays, everyone!

lame and trolly loses the thread.

My own fable regarding the nature of man (or Poe's as the case may be)

THE CONQUEROR WORM
by Edgar Allan Poe

Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly-
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!

That motley drama- oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out- out are the lights- out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

Stu, I thought you were a punker.

You hippie. :)

That story sucked, the wind was clearly a dumbass. And the rabbit was a dumbass too. So the real moral of the story is: don't be a dumbass in a story with a moral.