"Incompetence" is a nice bit of diction for someone who claims not to be seeking to fight. When I call someone "incompetent," fighting is assuredly my goal, at least in part. It certainly isn't practicing my diplomatic skills for an upcoming Model United Nations Conference.
It's useless to argue further that my comments could not have conceivably been addressed to you in any sensible rhetorical universe. Have it your way: I buried the lede, leaving you adrift without any navigational guidelines from me. It's a wonder you did not go down with your ship. I am a poor writer; you are a gifted reader. The fault is not in ourselves but in the flabby prose of our disputants.
Does that sum it up pretty well? Would OPS guide me towards correcting my sins as a writer, give you adequate markers to wade through my writing (why do you bother?), AND help me get Mr. Hansen to join the teachers in the room back on planet Earth in recognizing what it means to teach mathematics to students who are not his son and over whose prior preparation (why do thoughts of vegetables, spices, racks of lamb, etc., suddenly pop into my too, too solid mind and flesh, ready to melt in my watering mouth?) he has no control whatsoe'er? Do I dare to hope?
The fact is, my questions were, of course, not for you, though you were and are free to answer them. Or, gleaning at whom they were aimed - I know, I know, madness to expect a mere adult to extract that from my awful muddled paragraphs - you might have chosen to remain mute. Alas, I understand that I left you no such option. My guilt and shame are beyond measure or redemption.
You have, in fact, convinced me of the pointlessness of writing anything further. I shall retreat to a place of isolation, perhaps a monk's cell on some remote mountain, and meditate on my vain endeavors to shed some small light on the question of why Messrs. Hansen and Bishop are so deeply enamored of the 11th century.