When does the beginning end and the ending begin?

Well.  Well.  Well.  Bob's come across what he likes to call a "Smarty Pants".  Someone who likes to think he (or she, but less likely) can beat Bob with written chicanery.  This is a pure example of plurium interrogationum.  Another such question might be "Do you still beat your wife?"   A question that affords no answer any possible integrity. Thus,  touché!  I will play your game!

Let me give you some background on Bob.  Many wonder why, I, Bob,even bother to burn such  damp woodstuff of thought.  It is, my aimless readers, for the same reason we shovel snow.  No one enjoys pushing away piles of frozen waste, knowing the path will be full again tomorrow.  Such is the stuff of insolence.  Now, for your members, as I've been keenly following your groups, hoping to find some sign of literary evolution, that was an example of a metaphor.

Now. This question is so tantalizingly cheeky that I really ought to remind its poster, who I presume is just beaming with delight at his own self-derived pomp, that Gary Kasparov, famed chess player, did beat Big Blue, the IBM supercomputer.  And if our curious poster is an afficiando at Chess as he is with poking his clever questions, he's understand this: "We should point out that g2 g3 can be answered..by what?" " by Qf2+ Kh1 Qf1"

Let that be one beginning of the end.  And a good time to remind all of my mouth breathing readers, that while Gary Kasparov went on a 'grand mission' to save us 'humans' from computers, what's unclear is why Bob is  still waiting for Kasparov's response to his " interposition rook E -- Re8-e7" in our friendly game by E-mail.

 Perhaps, Kasparov would be best suited to beating Bob before taking on his anxiety of technology.

Now then, When does the beginning end and the ending begin?  Such a queer question that at first glance, we'd assume some jocularity in not expecting any proper response, but, as always, we've underestimated Bob.  What trite vagueness, declares our phantom poster.  Yet, our poster is not so translucent that Bob is ready to call him Hamlet's ghost!  Far from it.  Our poster has left his identity wide open in the mere manner of his goose like penmanship.

By the pressure of the pen, Bob senses your urgent need to be heard - a rabid dog would be inevitably quieter than a gusto like yourself.  Broad loops, swirly lines, and such eccentric flair, all slanted to the left, like you sir, are keeping something in check.  With uncaged emotions like yours, sir, you may as well carry a placard declaring, "I am mentally unfit and a menace to society!"  As always, Bob sees through your pitiful cry for attention, the "Z" of the malevolent Zorro, as it were.

Post Script:  After this publishing, local police, acting on a tip from Bob, picked up the poster of this question, complete with his blueprints for the Louvre, assorted lockpicking techniques, dressed exactly as Bob described, a black turtle neck, sports jacket  with suede elbow patches and casual jeans.  The jacket, was as Bob, predicted undone, and the attempted art thief tried to bribe the constabulary in rare Italian currency.  Just as Bob predicted. 











The End

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