Fight Club Pub.

(Would enjoy a debate between Budski and SDog)

Originally posted by Skyfloating
(Would enjoy a debate between Budski and SDog)

How about:
"Football (soccer) is the ultimate expression of athletic nihilism"?

Soccer is the perfect game for the post-modern world. It's the quintessential expression of the nihilism that prevails in many cultures, which doubtlessly accounts for its wild popularity in Europe. Soccer is truly Seinfeldesque, a game about nothing, sport as sensation.

Most soccer matches end in scoreless ties (or nil, nil in soccer parlance), 1-1 deadlocks or 1-0 victories. A final score of 2-1 is regarded as a veritable outburst of offense, an avalanche of goal scoring that leaves exhausted fans shaking their heads and pining for the old days when teams knew how to play strong defense....

In truth, soccer could be played without using a ball at all, and few would notice the difference. The game consists of 22 men running up and down a grassy field for 90 minutes with little happening as fans scream wildly....

Mostly soccer is just guys in shorts running around aimlessly, a metaphor for the meaninglessness of life.
Source

reply to post by Ian McLean

reply to post by budski


Thanks budski for your graciousness and understanding.
Since I am the one who defaulted and messed up on our previous debate I leave it up to you choose a topic and a position.
The only comment I would make is that football seems to me more conducive to oratory debate over a few beers with yelling and laughing than a prosaic structured debate.
Perhaps this option would peak your interest:

Originally posted by semperfortis

Originally posted by semperfortis
ATTENTION All FIGHTERS


I have a debate topic I would like to see debated...

It is both General in overall scope and yet Technical in nature...

I would like to see some serious time and serious work put into it...

I am also going to expand the debate parameters by including one more reply for each fighter that is chosen to accept this topic; giving each an opening, 4 replies and a closing. This is due to the vast amount of information out there for this topic.

No I am not going to reveal the topic.

I would like every Fighter that feels up to taking on this topic, please send me a U2U.....

I will then get with the other Debate Moderators and we will choose the Fighters...

This is a HIGH PROFILE ATS TOPIC....

If you are not serious, please do not apply...


Semper

Come on people!!!!

I actually have 2 GREAT topics pending..

One dealing with Social Issues

The other a total surprise

Both will require a lot of research and the Fighters that volunteer will be selected that represent the best side of each issue....

Semper

I think that semperfortis still has one debate topic available.

Let me know your thoughts, but as I said I happily will yield to your wishes on the topic.

And thanks again for your understanding.





[edit on 11/18/2008 by schrodingers dog]

reply to post by Ian McLean

A typical game:


A game of beauty, subtlety, athleticism, skill and tactics, unequalled by any other sport on the planet - probably the greatest exponents of which are south american teams, particularly Brazil

reply to post by budski


I'm surprised you didn't put up the chel-liv match.
I know you must have looked for it.

reply to post by schrodingers dog


Nah, didn't want to rub your nose in it too much - plus they are always tight affairs and I wanted a game with plenty of goals

reply to post by budski




So what do you think about what I suggested a couple of posts ago?

reply to post by schrodingers dog


It really depends on the subject - plus I am going away on either saturday or sunday and won't be around for 8-10 days.

I'd really like a fun debate on a lighthearted topic - I'm completely open to suggestions

Originally posted by budski
I'd really like a fun debate on a lighthearted topic - I'm completely open to suggestions

How about, "The Fire Shrimp Could Whoop The Ghost Shrimp's Uropod Any Day Of The Week."

reply to post by MemoryShock


I found this yesterday. I have no idea what it means but maybe there's a debate in it.

Coming back with a boob spell (too lazy to add all the details of the spell) enjoy

Overactive Breasts
Transmutation
Level: Sor/Wiz 4
Components: V,m
Casting Time: One action
Range: Medium (100 ft. + 10 ft/levels)
Target: One female humanoid(breasts must be 5 pounds or more)
Duration: 1 minute/level
Saving Throw: Will negates
Spell Resistance: Yes

Overactive Breasts causes the target's breasts to jiggle and bounce ridiculously throwing the target off balance. If the target wishes to walk she must beat a balance DC of 10+caster's lvl+1 for every 5 pounds each breast weighs if she wishes to run add 5 to the DC. The target fails to beat the DC she can only make a 5 foot movement. If the target wishes to attack she must beat the save if fails she takes a -5 to her attack. If the target is wearing any clothing/armor to keep her breasts from moving she does not suffer from these penalties.

Material Component: small amount of breast fat or hair from the target and some milk or ooze from an ooze and some milk.

deviantart

Originally posted by Ian McLean

Originally posted by Skyfloating
(Would enjoy a debate between Budski and SDog)

How about:
"Football (soccer) is the ultimate expression of athletic nihilism"?

Soccer is the perfect game for the post-modern world. It's the quintessential expression of the nihilism that prevails in many cultures, which doubtlessly accounts for its wild popularity in Europe. Soccer is truly Seinfeldesque, a game about nothing, sport as sensation.

Most soccer matches end in scoreless ties (or nil, nil in soccer parlance), 1-1 deadlocks or 1-0 victories. A final score of 2-1 is regarded as a veritable outburst of offense, an avalanche of goal scoring that leaves exhausted fans shaking their heads and pining for the old days when teams knew how to play strong defense....

In truth, soccer could be played without using a ball at all, and few would notice the difference. The game consists of 22 men running up and down a grassy field for 90 minutes with little happening as fans scream wildly....

Mostly soccer is just guys in shorts running around aimlessly, a metaphor for the meaninglessness of life.
Source

Formal Rebuttal

Playing soccer allows the player to learn key-skills, useful for life and business. Among these are: Teamplay. Focus on goals. Willpower. Anticipating Situations. Motivation. Persistence.

oooops...I forget we´re not in Debate anymore....

Irish M1ck vs Oscitate

A new debate is up guys...Good Luck to the two.

Thanks for the topic, Heike...

Whoop whoop, I'll do my best to employ the lessons learned in my first debate (and yes, thanks Heike for the debate and for the topic lol).

Go me!

reply to post by Oscitate


Good luck to both of yous.

Os, you're fighting an Irishman, I would suggest you study up on sky's debate tactics against Shock.

The lights are out -- the candles are lit -- the moon is full and the gloves are off.

Thanks for the tip.

I'm still trying to get a feeling for what it is that I'm arguing, the tactics will come later. Thankfully, as a con position, I go second.

reply to post by Skyfloating


In case you've never read Rinus Michels book, Teambuilding: The Road To Success I think a thread in a Liverpool forum, here would be a great introduction to a fascinating subject - and a surprisingly in depth one at that.

The article is in three parts,and links to the other 2 parts can be found in the link I posted.

If your a fan of REAL football, this really is a must read.

In real teambuilding there can also be seen elements of Sun Tzu, and Musashi Miyamoto's "Book of Five Rings" nothing can be left to chance - apart from the vagaries of the sport itself of course, on the days when lady luck smiles at the opposition a la spurs a couple of weeks ago.



[edit on 18/11/2008 by budski]

Yes, I'm still experimenting some as I try to figure out a "style" or approach that's going to be most effective for me.

Hey FSB, back atcha!

I will be watching the organic food debate very closely! I raise some of my own produce organically and have "organic" eggs from my own free range chickens. I do get somewhat annoyed about "organic" carrots costing twice as much as regular carrots (just how bad can you screw up a carrot???) but then I really do prefer to have my fruits and vegetables free of pesticides, artificial colors, preservatives, and other chemicals, and my meats free of drugs, hormones, and yucky "animal byproducts" that I probably wouldn't feed to my dog if I actually knew what they were.

Originally posted by budski
I'd really like a fun debate on a lighthearted topic - I'm completely open to suggestions

Which is sillier, Barney or Spongebob Squarepants?

The Cycle of Life has only one wheel.

Do dumb Blondes have more fun because they're dumb, or are dumb Blondes dumb because they've been having too much fun?

Mud Bugs: Suck them heads! (Whether to suck or not to suck, the upper parts out of a crayfish [crawfish] after eating the tail, being the question)

The phenomenal success of contacts is largely due to: "Guys don't make passes at girls who wear glasses"

And one serious one I'll throw out:

The earlier education is begun, the smarter the child is likely to become. (Pro and Con of pre-kindergarden education)

So yeah, read this on another forum and figured the Pub would enjoy

God wants me dead. I pissed him off. Pissed him off good. I don't know what sent him over the edge. Maybe it was my off-colour, sacreligious sense of humour. Maybe it was the bilby I drowned in a duffel bag. Whatever it was, one thing is clear - the great skyfairy wants hardcore vengeance, and he wants it now. Let's educate you on whats happened so far. If you don't want to read, I'll summarise it for you in the next two words.

Get lost.


-x-x-x---xx-x-xx---x-x-x-


Wednesday 4th.

I wake up at 4:30am feeling like my kidneys hijacked bulldozers and went ape# on my abdomen. I assume I am either really fluffy hungry, or constipated to the max. I stumble to the kitchen, grab a peach, take a dump, and go back to bed. I feel slightly better.

I wake up again at 6:30. Something's definitely up. My kidneys; unsatisfied with the carnage caused by bulldozers; have commandeered tanks and started burning down the Reichstag that is my middle half. I am in serious pain. In my infinite wisdom, I decide to ignore it, still thinking I might just be hungry or constipated.

It's now 10:30. Screw university, I'm not going; not while my organs are having a civil war. I drive up to the medical centre and take a seat. "There'll be a two hour wait - the doctors running late," she says. I'm in severe pain by now.

It's 11:30. Sitting up is getting unbearable. I ask to lie down on a bed somewhere, and the receptionist lady obliges. Angry geriatrics envy my special treatment. I feel powerful.

It's 12:00 or sometime, when bang. Holy mother fluffy of #. Raw, intense pain. Someone just Nagasaki'ed my bowel. A doctor comes in and watches me writhe in pain. He asks, "Are you ok?" I reply, "My stomach is on fire." He pushes on my abdomen, then my lower right abdomen. I nearly go catatonic and grip his hand. Wup-wow.

Maybe ten minutes later I'm in an ambulance with a morphine needle in my bum. Morphine is great. I remembered the old people's faces of disgust at my special treatment. It makes me smile. All is good in the world.

I rock up to hospital. A doctor comes and assesses me. He is not happy. He has a monobrow though, so I need not respect him. I get more drugs. I go to sleep.

I wake up and its night. Monobrow tells me they've called in the surgeon from dinner with her husband to do emergency surgery on my appendix which has ruptured and caused perotonitis. 10% mortality rate in healthy patients. Good, I like a challenge.

I am prepped for surgery. Nurses wheel me into the operating theatre late that night. Just before my bed enters the operating room, an attending stops me. She says they havn't done the pre-check on my details. She checks my wrist band. It says Mrs Finch, Jessica. "Mrs Finch, Jessica" has no allergies. Lucky her. I on the other hand, am deathly allergic to penicillin. Penicillin had been put on my treatment schedule. They take another ten minutes to correct things. My confidence is not great. My last words to the attending doctors is, "I'm glad someone knows what they're doing." I recognise a monobrow above one of the attending's masks. I smile. I don't even feel the anasthethic. I go to sleep.


Thursday 5th.

I wake up early in the morning. It is around 5am. I feel sleepy as #. Someone is standing above me. It takes me a few seconds to make sense of the face. It's an ex-girlfriend's mum wearing a nurses uniform. Then it hits me.

She's going to smother me with a pillow...fluffy

My eyes close again and I fall back asleep. I had survived. Boy was I on a roll.

It's 9am. The operating doctor comes to see me. She says she removed widespread infection covering my entire mid section with a particularly bad infection in parts of my abdomen and kidney. Apparently, my left kidney was displaced so as to be directly adjacent to the perforation where the infection originated. Smooth move God you cunning bastard. Luckily for me, my other kidney was having a picnic up north during the whole ordeal. You're fault for giving me two you sneaky son of a bitch.

12 hours from death she estimates. Groovy, I feel pretty good. "That's because you have morphine in your drip." Fantastic. Bring me some pie and I will be content.

The doctor leaves. I fall asleep.

It is mid afternoon. A nurse is changing my canular. A canular is the big tube in your arm that the drip connects to. I watch her take it off and replace it with a new canular. She then leaves. I turn away and fall asleep.

Woops. She didn't put the valve on. Bad, bad girl.

You see, veins have valves. This stops blood from flowing backwards in your body. Essentially, the liquid in my drip stopped going in and blood started coming out.

A good half hour later a nurse walks in. She wakes me and runs out the room. I have a quick look around and glance my bed. It is soaked in blood. It's soaked through my clothes, through my sheets, through the mattress. Everything. My left arm is stained entirely on one side. I lift my arm and leave an arm print of white. The nurses come back. Goodbye consciousness. To sleep again I go.

---
That's as much as I'll type for now. Things to come include psycho nurses trying to kill me, falling down in the shower, a near car crash, a run in with a different ex girlfriend's mum's psycho new boyfriend, a run in with a bicyclist on meth and a bus crash.

I # you not, all of this will be explained. God wants me dead. Read at your own risk. You have been warned.
Monday 9th

I wake up. It is morning. My priorities are in order.

Contact doctor.
Get soup.
Survive.

Psycho nurse walks in with the ward head and the lunch lady. They are the three medical musketeers. Angry, angry musketeers.

"We phoned the doctor."

Fantastic. Progress towards a goal that won't put me six feet under. That's a first. I ask about the soup.

"We told her about your behaviour."

I ponder this for a moment. I try hard to think of an answer that would most benefit my situation, and maybe even improve my relations with the nurses.

Instead, I ask about the soup. There is me, and there is soup. Nothing else matters. I want this made clear.

"Yes, you're allowed to have soup."

I smile. I am happy. I have waited so long for this day. A food with smell. A food with warmth. A food with personality. I consider making sweet love to the soup. I drop this consideration immediately.

"But you'll have to compliment your diet with jel-"

Her words mean nothing. The soup rests on my lap. It steams away. I close my eyes. To taste it is thrilling. Absolutely mind-blowing. I moan the sensation softly. I hum and shuffle and exhale. It is orgasmic.

I open my eyes. The musketeers are still watching me. Not awkward. Not awkward at all. I figure I may as well be polite. I hold the spoon up to psycho nurse.

"Want some?"

I smile. She is unimpressed. I know she's jealous. Harpies love soup.

"I'll be your care-taker for tonight."

The head nurse chimes in to finish psycho nurses' sentence. Nurses arn't capable of individual thought. They rely on a chattering hub of ineptitude and disinformation to make decisions. Natural Selection turns a blind eye. God has them on his dirty pay roll.

"Until then, behave and don't leave your ward. Your visitors are still restricted. We've stored your stuff in another room until you are ready to leave."

Wait, where's my phone.

"We've placed it with your other things."

Oh no you don't you dirty scoundrel. My phone is my personal property. Get fluffy'ed.

"You can collect it tomorrow."

I protest. I threaten to call King Louis. I threaten to call D'Artagnan. But I get nowhere. The musketeers walk out together. As one, they are vulnerable. As three, they fear nothing. I finish my soup. I will need the strength. Medical Stalingrad is in dire straits. Every line of communication has been cut. Higher nurse echelons have me sorrounded. Sporadic food drops will not sustain me.

One more night. One more.

I wake up. It is night time. Just before eight o'clock. It is silent. I can hear the nurses scurrying about. Perhaps they are searching for cheese. One of them asks another nurse if she's done the heparin rounds.

"Doing them now."

It is the chirpy, sinister voice of psycho nurse.

"67 should enjoy it."

They both laugh. I think nothing of it. I am oblivious. You devilish bastard God. My complacency is to your advantage. I leave my defense ill-prepared. Precious time is lost.

I glance the sign above the door.

67.

Oh no. No fluffy way. Not this fluffy # again. I remember the last heparin needle this psycho bitch gave me. I remember her getting up close and personal - blood-tipped needle in hand. I shift into overdrive. I weigh up my options. I am scared. I am afraid. #'s about to hit the fan, and I'm still in my fluffy pyjamas.

Then, sitting up, I eye something poking out from behind the adjacent room curtain.

Jackpot.

But I didn't think I'd go that far.

Then again, God goes as far as he fluffy wants.

My room is dark. The light is off. I see light emanating from the hall way. It is foreign territory beyond the darkness, but there is no time for caution. My needle is already one minute overdue. Slowly, I edge toward the door. I glance around the corners. My eyes sting. A nurse walks with her back towards me to the West. To the East, a family heads to a set of elevators. The elevators will be closely guarded. To the North lies an empty hallway. My decision is made for me.

I gun it.

I have never commandeered a wheelchair before, but by fluffy did I haul ass. If there was a Nascar for cripples Id've taken pole position. I get past one room. Then another. And another. I am getting tired. Half my energy goes to keeping the stupid thing straight. The other half goes to keeping the thing moving. I realise it is fluffy hard to use a wheelchair for the first time. My arms are aching already. I'm running on soup from 8 hours ago. I come to the next room.