RE: Is killing a Pastor always a bad thing?
October 29, 2013 at 4:09 pm
(This post was last modified: October 29, 2013 at 4:11 pm by Lemonvariable72.)
(October 29, 2013 at 2:08 pm)Cinjin Wrote:(October 29, 2013 at 3:43 am)Esquilax Wrote: ... it's easier to just distance yourself and let the problem go on, covered all the while by your persistent No True Scotsman fallacy.
I have found this is a nice little badge to keep around when the No True Scotsman argument rears its ugly head:
Stealing that for my avatar
(October 29, 2013 at 4:08 pm)Godschild Wrote:(October 29, 2013 at 3:43 am)Esquilax Wrote: What a complete cop out: you know nothing of these people and what they believe, even when some of them work under the auspices of your church, but that nonexistent level of knowledge has made you feel safe enough to assume that there's nothing you can do. Just admit it: it's just not something you want to deal with, because it's easier to just distance yourself and let the problem go on, covered all the while by your persistent No True Scotsman fallacy.
This is why I put you on ignore you're an unreasonable whiny person, I ask you to bring a good solution and what did you say educate them as if you knew exactly who thee people are. Yet when I gave you an answer to that you just say "cop out," now that's what I call real responsible conversation. The comes the NTS another thing you throw out because you can prove nothing. I would put you on ignore again but for some reason you have special privilages, this will be my last response to you.
Hi pot, meet kettle.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.