Talk:Protoss Remnants/@comment-32153776-20160726024353/@comment-27404954-20160726045209

Oh, con-grat-u-lations. You managed to make... something. I'm sorry, (not,) but your "ship" doesn't have the mass of a moon. In fact, your ship is about... hm. What's its volume?

Now, compare to the mass of Phobos...

Yeah. It'd get cut in half with three shots. Six to section it apart. Nine slugs to kill the entire ship before it can so much as respond. So... I'm calling that like 0.2 seconds with eighteen ships?

And that's assuming that I don't turn your ship on its own escorts. I'd just love to run your precious little abomination through its paces under a real commander; ooh, there's a thought. I wonder how much damage it would do if I rammed it into Aiur at... oh, some low fraction of c? I'm sure your oceans flash-boiling and your citizens screaming their last breaths as the shockwave rolls over them would be quite entertaining.

That is, of course, if I didn't just use your ship as a battering ram, smashing it this way and that throughout your entire fleet like a puppet, dancing on its strings. Oh, yes -- that would be delicious.

But no, I'm afraid I won't get to do any of that. Because your ship is physically impossible to ever create. I wish I could say I was sorry about that, but honestly, I'm not. Because I love the idea of you attempting to break a three-year-running roleplay with your overcompensating phallic substitute, only for it to be ruled -- correctly -- physically impossible to ever create within the thinnest definitions of accuracy.

It furthermore entertains me that you boast of "creating the most powerful ship known to man," then proceed to talk about me having no life. You're spending, what, six hours just on this monstrosity? I'm typing this response with a glass of Chardonnay and a rendition of The Last Array playing over my headphones between writing my novel. Who's the one with less life, Zum? The one who spends twelve hours on a collection of pixels that will never be more than simple bragging rights -- until TATO smashes your "record" into the ground, of course --, or the one who accomodates an entirely different collection of pixels in between an actual, busy, perfectly enjoyable life?

In conclusion, I laugh at your petty pretension, and bid you run off to your bedroom as if your much put-upon parents were threatening to deliver corporal punishment unto your person. Enjoy your twelve-hour session of absolute uselessness -- I know I will.

Because I'll be the one laughing at the end of it. Ta-ta~