Forum Overview :: Deleted Posts :: When too much Binro is barely enough.

[quote name="Binro the Penultimate"]More about me than you ever wanted to know. Binro the Heretic 03/02/02, 17:38 I'm posting all this for the benefit of Junior Allen who finds me an interesting guy and has begged for more details about my personal life. The post is long, depressing, whiny and quite boring. If you insist on reading it, don't say you weren't warned. I lived the first six years of my life in Mobile, Alabama. It was great there. Mobile was a well-developed urbanized area with a wide diversity of people. My parents owned their own home in a nice middle-class suburb. The surrounding homes were full of young families at the same stage of development as ours which meant I had lots of friends my own age. All our family lived in Mobile. My grandparents, my aunts, uncle & cousins, were all a short drive away. There was a public park and movie theaters and a public library where they put on puppet shows every weekend. I attended a private Catholic school staffed primarily by psychotic imported Irish nuns. There were a few civilian teachers there as well. They had taking teaching positions there primarily because brutality was not only allowed, but it was in fact encouraged. As tough as the place was, I will say I never got a better education at any other school I attended. I will also say they didn't allow students to bully or harrass other students. That was the faculty's job. We all wore uniforms there. Boys wore a white button-down shirt with burgundy slacks and a burgundy tie. Girls wore white buttoned blouses with a burgundy skirt. No jewlry was allowed. Neither was make-up. A nun once forced three eighth-grade girls to use sand to rub off clear nail polish. Then there were massive layoffs all across the country. My father, along with a lot of other people, lost his job at a company that provided welding supplies and services. Work had begun to dry up for them when work began to dry up for the shipyards. When the situation started getting desperate, father decided to take a job at a paper mill in Monroeville, Alabama. The house was sold and we packed up & relocated. Monroeville was a backwoods town. The sparse population was scattered around in little clumps separated by large forests of longleaf pines. The town's only movie theater had burned down two years prior to our coming and was never replaced in the time we lived there. The closest things to a public library in Monroeville were the school libraries. The closest things to a public park in Monroeville were the school playgrounds. Both were locked up tight when school was out of session. Just about everyone in Monroeville was a Southern Baptist. There is a very important distinction between Southern Baptists and Baptists. Back when the American Civil War began, the Baptist church agreed with then-President Abraham Lincoln's negative views on the issue of slavery and tried to discourage its members from fighting for the Confederacy which wanted the slavery system to remain intact. In response, members of the Baptist church living in Confederate states formed the Southern Baptist church which asserted that slavery was not only moral, but that subjugating blacks was a divine duty given to the white man by God. Southern Baptists do not like members of any other religion but they have a particular loathing of Catholics. The only religious group they hate more are the Jews. I've never clearly understood why the Southern Baptists have such a hatred of Catholicism. It has something to do with our prayers to the Virgin Mary and various other saints. More serious members of the Southern baptist church actually considered us devil-worshippers and false idol-makers. The entire Catholic population of Monroeville, some two dozen or so families, attended masses in a single humble church. My family's religious affiliation (Actually, Catholocism was my mother's and my religious affiliation. Father was an atheist. The only time he ever went to church was when I had my first communion.) made me an outcast. Other children would play with me once and then, presumably after a beating or scolding from their parents, would avoid me like the plague. I remember once playing with another boy out in his front yard. We both had big plastic cars and trucks and were pushing them around in his driveway. His mother suddenly called him inside and shut the door. I sat out there for a while waiting for him to come back. His mom would part the curtains and peer out at me from time to time. I finally picked up my toys and went home. The next day when I went back to see if he wanted to play, he went inside when he saw me coming. We moved around a lot within Monroeville. We kept relocating to various small shabby rental properties trying to find a general area where we would like to settle permanently. My parents still had the money they got from selling their house and were looking for another house, but every neighborhood displeased them somehow. I did manage to make a few friends every time we moved. Mostly, they were other social misfits and outcasts like me. None of us cared very much about that. We had fun. Little more than a year after we moved to Monroeville, the paper mill had a massive layoff. The first people to go were the recent hires like my father. He couldn't get unemployment compensation because of all the money we had in the bank from selling our old house in Mobile. So that money began to dwindle as it was used for rent, utilities, groceries and other necessities while my father did various odd jobs for whatever money he could get. My parents' marriage started having problems when I was almost nine. I can remember some truly spectacular screaming matches. Father was always in a foul mood because of his job situation. Mother was always in a foul mood because she had been dragged away from her family & friends and out of the big city to a hick town where she was treated like a pariah by most everyone. When I had just turned nine, I was sexually assaulted by an older boy. I would guess his age at about fourteen or fifteen. He lured me into the woods near our neighborhood under the pretense of letting me play with an air rifle. Once there, he fisrt forced me to perform oral sex on him then he somdomized me. I don't remmeber much about the attack. I remember the physical pain, the humiliation and the fear, of course, but I don't rember enoguh lascivious details to satisfy efficianadoes of child pornograpy. I remmebr him grabbing my hair and twisting it. I remmember the angry crease between his eyes and the knuckles on the fist hemade of his free hand. I remember the smell of the damp rotted leaves from whern he made me get down on all fours. He ensured my silence afterward by threatening to kill my dog if I told anyone. I didn't tewll anyone. For about a week after the assault whenevevr I took a shit, it was painful and there was blood in the bowl. I thought I was dying but i still didn't tell anyone. I kept having nightmares about finding my dog dead. I became very antisocial. The only times I left the yard were to go to school or go someplace with my parents. The boy who had attacked me still stalked the neighborhood. He still played with the other kids who were about my age. School was never fun in Monroeville. My private education was easily two years ahead of the Monroeville public school system. The first teacher I ever had in Monroeville was a vicious emaciated bitch with a perpetual scowl and a haircut like a marine drill instructor. It seemed to enrage her that I already knew what she was trying to teach me. She would berate me in front of the class for doing things the way I had been taught to do them in Catholic school. I hated her with a white-hot passion. She was cunning, too. At parent-teacher conferences she wore floral-print dresses, makeup and a big warm smile. She disguised herself as somebody's grandmother, hiding the brutal harpy she really was. All of my other teachers in Monroeville were indifferent clock-watchers who had little to no interest in whether or not their students were learning anything, but that was a major improvement over having a teacher who actively hated you. There were many differences between private Catholic school and public schools. Teachers weren't allowed to whack the back of a student's hand with a ruler if they caught them daydreaming in class. They were, however, allowed to beat us with massive wooden paddle, a practice the nuns would have found appalling. I was paddled several times at various grade levels by various teachers. The very first time I was paddled, I was paddled by the shrivelled bitch. She did it to punish me for reading aloud the word ''pussy'' after seeing it spray-painted on a wall. To me at that age and having freshly come form a sheltered Catholic upbringing, a pussy was a cat. She thought I was pretending when I acted as though I didn't know what I had done wrong which angered her all the more. And so, I was forced to stand in front of the class, bend over and receive five hard swats from a foot-long four-inch paddle. I once got paddled for using a standard dictionary to look up the words on my spelling list. Well, technically, I was being paddled for forgetting to take home my spelling book so I could use the dictionary provided in the back. I think I was actually being paddled because, since the definitions I wrote didn't exactly match the definitions in the teacher's key, he couldn't tell if they were correct or not. Several months after I was sexually assaulted, my parents separated. They had both been fucking around on one another. Father had been having affairs with several women. Mother had been having an affair with a man who lived in the same trailer park we were living in at the time. I never met any of father's mistresses. Mother moved in with the man she was seeing. Father moved out of that trailer park and into another. I spent the weekdays with my mother and her new partner and spent weekends at my father's new place. It might have been good to get away from the neighborhood where the boy who attacked me still roamed free, but things were little better in my father's neighborhood. Paul was the undisputed king of the kids in that neighborhood. He was tall for his eleven years, played junior football and loved pro wrestling. Every other kid in the neighborhood adored and worshipped Paul. They willingly did his bidding. His favorite game involved getting a group of boys together to encircle me and take turns hitting me. Paul made sure everyone in the neighborhood knew I was to be tormented. A favorite trick of his was to get a child younger and smaller than myself to attack me. If I retaliated in any way, the little brat would run screaming to his parents who would of course tell my father I was bullying smaller kids. Another favorite trick of Paul's was to take any object I happened to be holding, throw it on the ground, stand between it and myself and challenge me to take it back. If I refused to play his little game and simply walked away, he would destroy the stolen article or throw it somewhere it couldn't be found. I lost several small toys, comic books and even a paperback version of ''Dragon Quest'' by Anne McAffrey. I could have dealt with not having any friends. I was getting used to being without them. The bad part was Paul had bonded with my father. Father loved Paul as much as the neighborhood kids did. Paul was like the son he never had. That is to say, Paul was the kind of son my father would liked to have had. He was into sports and cars and hunting and fishing and all sorts of other manly things. He didn't spend his time reading books or scribbling in a drawing pad as I did. Paul's father was in his seventies. His second wife, Paul's mother, was in her late-twenties. The only sibling of Paul's who still lived in the same home was his eighteen-year-old half-sister. She hated her stepmother and channelled a lot of that hate to her young half-brother. Paul had two half-brothers, both in their twenties, who would have nothing to do with their father or his new family. So while Paul did have a male authority figure to look up to, it wasn't the sort of male authority figure who could hop up and play catch in the back yard. That changed when my father moved into the neighborhood. Father would never tell me about all the fun he ha during the week when I wasn't around but Paul rubbed my nose in it every weekend. Of course, in front of my father, Paul was a kindly big brother surrogate. He was so sweet it made me want to puke. I had gotten a Battleship set for Christmas. This was the old non-electronic Battleship that came in two separate cases, one red, one blue. I brought it over to my father's house one weekend, hoping I could get dad to play a game or two with me. Instead, he had me play it with Paul. I had sunk everything but Paul's patrol boat. He had sunk everything but my submarine. Finally, I scored a hit on his patrol boat and on his turn, he scored a hit on my sub. The hit on Paul's patrol boat was right at the bottom edge of the grid meaning two misses and a hit would win the game for me before he could sink my sub. I missed on my next turn. He scored a hit on the sub. I missed again. He missed. I called out the last possible shot and Paul said it was a miss. When I protested, he smiled broadly and called my father over to have a look at his board. I peered around to see it as well. The patrol boat was hanging half-off the grid. My father laughed. When I got angry about it, he scolded me, saying it was just a game and told me not to act like a little cry-baby. All the while, Paul was sitting behind him with a huge shit-eating grin on his big stupid face. I had dark fantasies about giving Paul Kool-Aid spiked with rat poison. Mom's new beau was like an older, more sadistic version of Paul. He wanted to be the center of all her attention and was intensely jealous of any affection she showed me. Whenever she was out of the room, he would say and do anything he could to make me miserable apparently hoping I would move in with my father permanently. He mocked me because I was small for my age. he called me a sissy for reading and drawing a lot. He would poke and thump and pinch me until I retaliated at which point he would start slapping me and pinning me down. If I called for my mother, he would pretend we had just both been horsing around. His favorite expression was, ''if you can't take it, don't dish it out.'' I wasn't the only person he tried to isolate my mother from. He had already driven off the few friends she had made in Monroeville. She had also dropped out of the church. As an adultress, she was given a cold shoulder by the rest of the congregation. He was always trying to make my mother choose him over me. Something as simple as accidentally knocking over my glass of milk at the dinner table was a perfect example of why she should love him more than me. I had to ask permission for everything. I had to ask to be excused when I wanted to go to my bedroom or the toilet. I wasn't allowed to even get myself a glass of tap water from the sink without asking permission. Once, I left a comic sitting on the coffee table in the living area. He tore it to shreds and threw it away. On average, I was awakened two or three times a week late at night by the sounds of loud enthusiastic sex. I would press those little flaps of skin just outside the openings of my ears into the ear canal with my thumbs and bury my head under the pillow. It didn't shut the sound out very well, but the lack of oxygen would cause me to pass out which was even better. He never really hit me hard or abused me. I suspected he mistreated my mother when I was away. When I came back from visiting my father, I would notice bruises on mom's wrists and shoulders. He never hit her in front of me. he knew if my father found out he had struck her or me, my father would have fucking killed him. I did see him pin my mother against the wall and refuse to let go until he realized I was watching. Anyway, the guy lost his job at a local company that manufactured reinforced concrete slabs for construction firms. He couldn't affor the rent on the trailer so he, mom and I had to move in with his mother and her latest husband. She was a lush. She stayed sober during the week because she had to be able to work. She had a job at the textile mill. She only got loaded on weekends so I seldom had to see her drunk. Her husband, on the other hand, was always drunk. He stayed on the couch all day and all night. The only times he ever got up were to get more booze out of the kitchen or go to the bathroom. Sometimes, he would simply soil himself. He seldom bathed. The smell would knock you down when you walked into their trailer. The trailer was filthy when we first moved in. Mom managed to clean and tidy the place during our stay, but she could do nothing about that smell. Mom's new neighborhood was no better than our old neighborhood or dad's new neighborhood. A kid named Keith called the shots there. Unlike Paul, he wasn't into organized sports, but he was an athletic kid and the champion of the backyard sports in the neighborhood. Keith had a thug named Shawn. Shawn was much bigger than Keith. It always amazed me that Shawn didn't just kick Keith's ass and take over. For some reason, though, Shawn was perfectly content to follow Keith's orders, especially when Keith told him to hold another kid so Keith could punch him without worrying about retaliation. Shawn always had bruises and cuts, especially on his face. I presumed it was because he got into a lot of fights. Then one day, I saw his father call him to their trailer and punch him. I mean, he hauled off and punched this kid like he was a grown man, right in the jaw. He did this in broad daylight in front of the whole neighborhood, in front of God and everyone. Shawn was stooped over with a hand pressed to the side of his face that had just gotten punched. His eyes were squeezed shut and his mouth was wide open but no noise was coming out. In the meantime his father had removed his belt. He gave Shawn three savage strokes, making him dance and finally forcing a cry of pain out of him. He ordered Shawn into the trailer. His booming shouts and Shawn's cries could be heard even with the door closed. One time I saw Shawn's mother, who had her fair share of facial scars, hold Shawn's three-year-old little brother up by one arm and beat him with a rake handle. As far as I know, nobody ever called the cops on them. I plucked up the courage to ask mom's boyfriend about this. He got pissed and told me it was their business how they raised their kids. The sad truth was that child-beating was a cottage industry in Monroeville. While Shawn's parents were a more extreme example, it was something almost everyone did to some degree. It was accepted. It was considered a part of child-rearing. One weekend, my father took me out for the only form of amusement available in Monroeville. We went out to the roller-skating rink. I had fun there, even if dad didn't join in. He did play a few games of air hockey with me, though. Paul had been invited, but his parents wouldn't let him come. Too bad. When we got back to dad's place there was a business card on the front door with the seal of the sherriff's office on it. Mom's boyfriend had beaten her savagely. She was in the hospital and he was in jail. Dad wouldn't let me go with him to pick her up. He had me stay over at Paul's parents' house. He didn't come and get me until he had gotten her home and put her to bed. I didn't get to see her for three days. She stayed in the bedroom. i was told to go outsde or to my room wheneve she had to go to the toilet. I got to taslk to her through the closed bedroomm door. She always sounded like she was about to cry. i finally had to sneak in whemn dad was out. She was ling in bed. Her eyes wer surrnded with dark puffs and there was a big purple bruise with a brownish-green ceter on her left cheek. She was sort of asleep but she woke up ad saw me. I gave her a hug. We had enough of Monroeville. By the end of the year we were packed up and going back to Mobile to stay with my grandparents on my mother's side. We stayed with them about a year before moving to Pensacola, Florida, right before my little sister was born.  Ah, Jesus, now I have to do this again already. Homosayswhat 03/05/02, 17:38 Let me make this clear to you, Binro. I can't make fun of you anymore. To a certain degree, yes, but certainly not like before. You posted this stuff about your life. If it helps you like you say, that's great, I sure as hell hope as it does something besides make many us all feel extremely uncomfortable. But you aren't going to get it both ways from me. junior was right, you fucked it all up for me. You've become what I used to deal with day-in and day-out. I can't regard you as silly chunky witless Binro anymore. I'm sure plenty still do, but I can't. I've heard your story more or less dozens upon dozens of times. And I can't do it anymore. You want sharing? I'll share: I withdrew from medical school last Spring. I didn't want to get into it with all you idiots, so pardon me for not making a big announcement, something I've tried to avoid up until recently when I got all gay. I'm no doctor, I will never be a doctor, direct all your future medical questions at Izqueirda. OGF gets offer of oral sex from some plain-looking broad to keep her company, I got a similar offer a year ago last August from a heroin addict with abscesses covering his arms for some morphine. My recent gayness might have had something to do with the fact that my med loans just came due, some 70K, that I have to pay on now. Which is still better than staying in. Why? I fucking hated it. I hated dealing with sick people, any and every kind of sick you can imagine, and some beyond that. Everyone's sick, everyone's dying, just pick a speed and method. My first patient my third year was a guy who came in because he was having trouble balancing and walking straight. He had a tumor the size of a racquetball in his left frontal lobe, which was a metastasis from one of several smaller ones in his lung. He's dead by now, for fucking sure. It was all downhill from there. I actually chose psych because it was the fucking worse, those patients. I couldn't fucking take it anymore, not coupled with the strong likelihood I'd be lucky to break 6 figures as a top income, nor ever be happy with what I do. The people I treat sure as hell won;t be, the people I work with and around sure as hell aren't. And I sure as fuck wouldn't stay in Vegas, they just had a huge summit with all the state doctors because malpractice insurance is going to potentially rise into the middle six figures annually for doctors here. I got a 60K job as head of distribution for the only organ donation center in town, plus I teach for another 15K on top of that. That'll do fine, and they're opening a dental school here in another year, I'll see about that. You want to call me greedy, you go through medical school and see if you don't feel entitled to a comfortable living when it's over. Enough about me, the point is, this is you reminding me of what I really never want to be reminded of ever again. It isn't about me feeling sorry for you, or trying to imply that Shnibble is starving in Africa, so shape up both literally and figuratively. It's more like I don't want to play anymore, it makes me feel guilty, it isn't fun for me, I'm not going to do it anymore. You look like work to me; old, unbearable unpleasant work. You look like the least desirable parts of a large misguided effort on a significant part of my life. There's plenty of people chomping at the bit to slam you, you don't need me. You're part of the reason I left, this reason I'm explaining, and coming back is under the self-imposed condition that I don't bother with you so much anymore. I'm not thinking of you, son, I'm thinking of me. HSW  As little as I like agreeing with Oom junior allen 03/04/02, 17:38 Oh, how fucking traumatic. You are clearly a special fat man. There is no fucking way you can let that justify your life. the shnibbular one, oom (Here have a butterstick on me.) He's right about this. I read the above carefully this morning -- how could I not? It was done for me, right? You know, it's a cliche because it's true: writing is by definition a form of lying. You can't capture 'truth'. You choose events, decide how to relate to them in various ways, leave this out, that in, strive for certain portrayals over others. No one on this board -- including myself -- is presenting their 'true' selves. They're presenting what they want others to see. So why do you want others to see this? And let's have no nonsense about your not forcing anyone to read it, or that you don't care what people think. The first is true, but beside the point: the fact that you posted it here, as opposed to scribbling it in a notebook and hiding it under your bed, implies a *wish* to have someone read it. And I simply don't believe that you don't care what people think. The laboriously self-deprecating stance here -- 'this is going to be long and boring, don't say I didn't warn you' is a rather obvious rhetorical device to deflect criticism. So why do you want others to see this? I remember when Hardhop was here, he once posted that his friend had died. I told him then that nobody here is your friend, don't come here for emotional solace. It's not designed for it, it can't handle it. I was always willing to cut him slack, though, because he was a kid. You're not. A brief aside to hopefully make my point clearer. I like strip clubs, on occasion. When I have the money and the time. I view them as a kind of 'adult Disneyland', a consensual illusion where, as long as everybody plays by the unspoken rules, you can have a good time. (Your job as a customer is to give the dancers money; their job is to pretend you're the sexiest thing on the planet.) The worst things that can happen in a strip club is when one of the parties breaks the illusion. Sometimes you see regulars who are obviously in love with one of the dancers -- that's always embarrassing. Equally bad is something that happens to me a lot, for some reason -- strippers will start bitching to me about their real-life problems. They're not making money, no one's watching them dance, blah blah blah. Once the illusion is broken the whole interchange becomes depressingly sordid, and I leave. This place is, IMO, a sort of consensual illusion. People get together to bullshit about this, that, or the other. The illusion is that we 'know' each other, in some way, that these words are 'us' -- that, in short, this is the equivalent of a bunch of friends bullshitting in a bar. It's not. It operates on a more superficial level, though that doesn't make it any less enjoyable. It's 'frienship' without emotional commitment, for lack of a better way to say it. I thought a bit over the weekend about why I truly don't like you, Binro, and it comes down to this -- you break the illusion. I resented -- and indeed, resent -- these kind of posts, because they all of a sudden force upon me social obligations that I have no interest in filling. Suddenly I'm supposed to feel bad for you, suddenly I supposed to empathize with your pain. But there's no connective tissue here: I don't have the thousands of experiences I would have to have with you to make any feelings important or memorable. As Vag told me, you're just a collection of words posting from somewhere. I don't care enough about you to care about you, if you follow me, and I resent you trying to pretend otherwise. I don't think I'm expressing myself very well, so let me try it again. By posting these kind of things you are clearly looking for some sort of reaction -- some sort of emotional engagement. Again, no nonsense that this isn't what you're looking for: the post was well-written, and obviously crafted for effects. More: you're looking for some kind of sympathetic engagement -- note how chilly you get when anyone attacks your posts based on information you reveal. But I'm not posting to an emotional support group for the victims of child abuse; I have no interest in nursing your pain. One last way to try to describe it: when I was going through slush pile manuscripts (did that for awhile for a literary agent), you would occasionally come across stories that were obviously written to dramatize a moral. 'Alcholism is bad' or 'women shouldn't be second class citizens' or whatever. Those are the worse kind of stories, for they kind of emotionally blackmail you -- you're supposed to overlook all the boring prose and bad writing because you enthusiastically agree with the moral being propounded. You're like the internet poster-version of these stories. Anyone could say 'your life obviously has sucked', Binro, but the truth of the matter is, that doesn't make up for you acting like a fucktard here. I've decided this is the last time I'm ever going to respond to you, for any reason. It's an utterly pointless enterprise. I looked over my posts last week and while I was obviously pretty steamed, and therefore a bit incoherent, I don't apologize for anything I said there. Between me and my circle of friends I could come up with a list of horrors that would turn your hair white. You're not that special. More importantly, you've made an idol of your pain, and bow down to it regularly. It's clear to me that when push comes to shove you use your pain as an excuse to mitigate your useless life. It's just a waste, Binro. A sad, sorry waste. junior allen  More case studies Vag 03/04/02, 17:38 Funny how this should all turn up in the wake of my discussion with Hokie about public wallowing. Is there a heirarchy of suffering? Do we get to say that if Binro has such a tormented life he's more justified in his wallowing than Barbie (if, hypothetically, in an alternate universe where everything is wildly different from this world, Barbie could conceivably perhaps once in a century wallow) would be? But Barbie's got A Mental Condition - does that trump Shitty Childhood seeing as it's ongoing and all? And the lists of horrors of your friends, junior - apparently they trump Shitty Childhood. And trumping Shitty Childhood means you get to sneer at Shitty Childhood. It seems to me that such an attitude is based on the assumption that all people are equally well-equipped to deal with Hideous Traumas. There's the running assumption that Binro could Be Somebody If He'd Just Get Off His Ass, mainly because we know all these other people who Are Somebody despite having Shitty-Childhood-trumping traumas. I think if we are aware that there are retards and fuglies, there should surely be a leap to people who are emotionally retarded. And I don't mean this in the popular sense of 'my boyfriend forgot my birthday and he was so insensitive about the centipedes', I mean this in a 'just can't fucking cope' way. I suppose much of modern psychology and psychiatry deals with this but I'll defer to HSW on this point. So let's say Binro's emotionally retarded and he just can't fucking cope. Well then what? Can we still call him a big fatty assraped fag? I say hell yes, because many are the retarded and fugly and handicapped who have achieved in spite of their disabilities. Perhaps, junior, part of your Binro-induced rage has to do with the idea that he's not even trying to get over his Shitty Childhood, which is where your pals come into this. But the heirarchy of woe idea is I think too biased towards the idea that everyone should be able to cope; it doesn't take into account differing abilities. I think if there's going to be stones hurled at Binro it should be with the understanding that he's a big fatty assraped emotionally retarded fag. 'But doesn't that qualify as making fun of the handicapped?' Who doesn't like to laugh at those malty-limbed cripples? Seriously though, it's a difficult question. Because if we assume that Binro is sko psychologically handicapped go-tard, making fun of him for being dysfunctional is a lot like making fun of a guy in a wheelchair for not being able to walk, isn't it? NO! It's like making fun of a guy in a wheelchair for trying to run in the Olympics. As junior pointed out, this isn't a support group. In fact this is more like a gladiatorial arena of gay fUNnEY and people haven't been shy about telling Binro, and others, that this is a bad place to take all your whiney faggot problems. 'But I thought you said he's dysfunctional!' Yeah but now he's dysfunctional and too ass-stupid to get out of Dodge - a guy in a wheelchair who keeps wheeling up to the starting blocks in the lesbian's 500-m dash. It's worse than offensive: taking care of it requires other people to either let him keep embarrassing himself or they have to keep wheeling him off the track against his will, and Timmy here keeps shooting back out to the line whenever that happens. His persistence will require everyone else to behave inhumanely, as junior demonstrates. Well, but the solution is to just run the race instead of waiting for Timmy to get safely stowed away. And so it would have been better, I imagine, if everyone who really really hates Binro kept his fucking mouth shut about it. Of course there's every chance that a great majority of us are all emotionally retarded, in which case I'll go get the socker-boppers and we can get back to our little Valhalla! McDonalds tonight, gang!  RE:More case studies Vag 03/04/02, 17:38 I don't read a lot of Barbie's posts, honestly -- 75% of what he talks about is way over my head -- but I've never felt particularly irritated with him. It seems to me that he at least tries to be honest about how his perspectives might be skewed, for example. And one can have an intelligent discussion with him -- I've never felt that he's deliberately being a fucktard ala Binro. Point here is that there's an unstated presumption with Binro: I'm unique. Nobody's suffered the way I've suffered, nobody's felt the pain I've felt. Which is horseshit, of course. I'm sure you and your friends, Toutsuite and his friends, Creexul and his friends could all come up with a list of horrors that would turn Binro's hair white. The Binro story is not in itself interesting. But jr, I think Barbie is deliberately a fucktard on occasions and I don't think Binro's uniqueness assumption is uncommon, hence it doesn't get up my ass. So that's another problem with getting genuinely upset about people you haven't ever actually met: maybe...you're getting upset...about the wrong thing. About something you're reading into the person which isn't actually there - Barbie will hasten to say he's not a deliberate fucktard and Binro will list all the other support group rejects he knows as an example of how un-unique he is, perhaps. Which isn't to say you're right and I'm wrong or vice versa about the demerits of B and B. It's just that there's no real point in getting mad about the people involved. Especially here. In case I didn't make it clear earlier I agree with you that undue personal exposition is bad. Bad here, even bad outside of here. Buuuuuuuut two problems: what is 'undue' and are we, perhaps, in the minority where this is concerned? And if that's not enough, wouldn't it just be great if Binro, and Barbie, and lots of other people here - if they were fabricated entirely? Wouldn't it just suck a big cock if you'd gotten so wound up about smoke and mirrors and similar queerness? You never can tell. I might be a penguin. I'd like to be a penguin - swim swim I would go, zooming through the water in search of fish and penguin cock! Whee! Get literary about it, man. Binro is a lost Tennessee Williams/Danielle Steele fusion character wandering in search of a plot; he encounters Barbie, a Kafka-esque concoction with eighteen tentacles, any three of which are busy raping dead Japanese schoolgirls at any given moment. In swoops Monty, A Bertrand Russell self-insertion character in a Samuel Beckett fanfic! Ta da it's KThor, straight from Cimmeria, doing battle with the mighty hordes that are Creexul, the latter sko cross between Lovecraft and Card Captor Sakura. Jesus, junior, have some fun with your illusions. [/quote]