As far as the "one" thing goes, it strikes me that the best (if not the only) reason to use "one" in a sentence as you have is to give it some kind of polite, educated, abstract quality. Since you'd already said "As we were questioning etc etc", that was already gone all to shit. Using "one" in some sentence here is fine, if that's your thing. But using "we" and "one" in the same sentence (to mean approximately the same thing, at that) just sounds gay. Re: "I suggest if you believe the use of 'one' and other pomposities on this site is to make the writer appear scholarly then it is you who are the dim." That's not at all what I said. I said you were using them to appear scholarly, and by incorrectly using them you were making yourself sound dim instead. With that middle bit, I'm going to suppose you're not trying to quote me, since if you are, you're the world's most floundering turd. Re: "a more chilling reposte to your boast would be that we have a doctor on this site. And his name is doug." Chilling indeed. Here's a bit selected more-or-less at random from dougsoderstrom's oeuvre: "I agree with you as you do have a very good point. However, as you can see, I did make provision for your well-made point in that man, having been "melded into society/socialized/brain-washed" is, I feel, moved, by the evolutionary force, to cooperate with those within "his own family" (his national group) in order to defend himself/his group of fellows by killing the enemy.......... in order to survive." And I don't know what boast you're talking about. I don't remember claiming to be anything on this site except a recent Grad Student in an Accredited Poetry School, Heir to a Milwaukee Jerky Czarship, and a current teacher of Retard Islams in Karak, Islamland - all but one of which is true.

you idiot

It pains me to relate the tale Of how my loins became so frail. 'twas long ago, when just like you, I was young, and foolish too. My misspent youth was Poulaine-free: I'm not the man I used to be! How spritely I did pounce in shame! Unburden'd by the great poulaine! Leaping gaily through the town, O'er pointed rail and skulking browne*, 'till one morn my footing failed And 'pon an fence I was impaled! Ne'er again the brogueish sheath To cling upon my underneath: A pointed shoe now does protrude From my mangled, dangled lewd. *browne n. An ethnic hobo or street urchin; a stain.

The pattern's no mightier than the "Welly" But the brogue's fetid leather is far more smelly. As for the cad in red poulaines? Cast him to the gaol in chains! He's a silly apish jester Whose shoes allow his corns to fester. He knows well no man of brains Would ever wear his foul poulaines Except perhaps the mummified remains Of the foppish Maynard Keyes: http://tinyurl.com/4zf4j

How dare you enter into conversation, With an gentleman so above your station, This is not a meritocracy, I am from better stock you see. Poulaines are ace, for a court jester, Or indeed the Earl of Leicester, But not for me those pointy jokes, Commonly worn by poorer folks, Best left for the poorer squires, Who own not half the shires, Wear them please, you lowly clerks, For those in the pages of Burkes, Kniow to wear a shoe of such decor, That people like you will fall to the floor, And kiss the brogue of a Lord and Knight, Know thee now, the patterns might.

I seem to have had a brain fart there.

You are the matted milk in burt's stache.

No; a better comment would be "That's a convoluted sentence." I wouldn't bother trying to draw naughty analogies with mathematics. In fact, the best comment of all would be "bow'ls". As for the original point of this discussion, which was that ace poetes make ace critics, I tend to agree. By "critic" I don't mean someone who writes about poemes, slagging them off with panache, or praising their "frustratingly oblique irresolution". I simply mean someone who knows cack writing when they see it. I think the first step towards being an ace poete is to have ace taste in poemes. If you didn't have good taste, your haphazard guff splats would be bizarre mixtures of random geniusness, and mediocre fiddle-faddle. They'd be raging cow pats of insanity - peradventure the odd, flukey slice of splendid cow; the rest? Pat!