Turn 200 bloody off.
You know, there is a sociological observation I've made about people, especially the last few generations of boys/men we've raised, or rather, half-raised. Smack-talk in life in general and especially on 200 is the level of monkeys throwing feces from the safety of the trees. See, world is full of those who want to feel tough but don't want to see any blood...especially their own. You are not a monkey, you are a hominid, a direct descendant of the Australopithecus who first dispensed with all this screaming, excrement throwing, bluffing baloney, by quietly picking up a gazelle femur, and rendering his tormentor neatly dead. You're in the arena primarily to kill and die. If you get them...no need to say anything. If they get you, don't make them happier by acting like you care at all. Let me tell you something, a <S> is nice I guess,
but nothing makes me happier after a kill than a "Nooby-haxxor/cheater!" P.M.
If you absolutely must tell someone why something they did is stupid, do it in a PM so it doesn't make a public drama everyone else has to deal with.
Even better, some never get that worked up. 
There's basically 3 levels of self control:
1. People who lose it.
2. People who would lose it but have learned to control it.
3. People who's emotions rarely get red-hot in the first place.
#3 is my ideal, #2 is frequently my reality, but I haven't really reached #1 since adolescence.
I wouldn't give a dime for a man who never lost his temper. The world has too many people that you could kick their dog, insult their grandmother, and steal their T.V. sets, and they'd still be dialing 911 on the cell while you were running off with their property. There needs to be at least some selective pressure against utter love muffinery, to put it in Darwinian terms.
