A dozen whores, and I didn’t even have to die for Islam.
12 online prostitutes just Friend Requested me on Myspace. Did one of you spread the word that I’m e-pimpin’ again?
It’s all good, though, ’cause City City wants to be friends too. What, you’ve never heard of City City? Me neither. They contacted me because they “heard” I like the band Ratatat and they “kind of do similar things.” You kind of do similar things? Here’s something you do similarly: You both hit me up for Friend Requests on Myspace.
Myspace, you have become a social networking spam folder of obsolescence.
No, worse. Myspace, you have become Friendster. Remember Friendster?
Sure, Myspace was fun back when there were old friends to re-connect with. But everyone who will ever use Myspace already uses it, and we’ve already re-connected with them. It was great to catch up for a little while, exchanging emails and (as the kids say) peeping pics (trust me, they say it). But eventually we reach a point where we’re caught up. Then what?
Of course there are exceptions, but most of the time the social networking site mirrors reality and we fall out of touch again, because we’re not meant to know everyone forever. The close friendships don’t usually require a networking tool so the tool becomes obscelete.
And then an unsuspecting site like Myspace dies because the only people approaching us there are internet prostitutes and bands we’ve never heard of. It’s like “Hollywood: The Social Networking Site.” And as a current resident of Hollywood, I can tell you, that’s scary on the internet AND in real life.
So we find a new site to populate. Thank God for Facebook, that’s where our new old friends reside. Only now they have hyphenated names and children. We can’t be more than a handful of future sites away from having social geriatric pages where we all tag photos of our grandkids and organize online bridge tournaments. It will be called Cryspace, and the word “blog” will be a synonym for “obituary.”
If there is one thing you take from this reading experience, let it be this: Gotta tag your grandkid photos, yo. Gotta.
Wow, today has been really internet-heavy. I guess I spent too much of the day chatting with Telly. There, Telly, you’re in the blog. Happy now?! Anybody else need a shout-out or can I get back to pumping out hard news and serious editorials?
I take my blogging VERY seriously. It may be shits and giggles to you all but when I write this stuff it’s like Code:Orange up in this piece.
I blog because if I don’t, people die.
My name is Ben and this has been my most serious blog yet.
Do me a favor…
To counteract the onslaught of baby pictures on Myspace and Facebook, post a picture of yourself wearing a diaper. Why should babies get to horde all the cute? You would look smashing dressed in a diaper.
Do it by October 30th, before we get barraged with photos of everyone dressed like Sexy Sarah Palin for Halloween. I’m going as Adolph Hitler. Dressed up as Sexy Sarah Palin. Sardolph Hitlin. Here’s what Sardolph Hitlin might look like:
HA, Sardolph Hitlin! Sounds like a character from your precious Harry Potter books.
Now cue my music.
Still don’t know how.
So yeah, you should post a picture of yourself in a diaper. I’m gonna do it.
I’m probably not gonna do it.
My name is Ben and I just blog lied.
I cain’t even front.
I got too much love in my heart, ya’ll. Too much love in my heart! But these cats is testin’ me. They tryin’ to steal my spirit. I can’t let ‘em take it from me, ya’ll! Blue-haired granny takin’ up the whole sidewalk? I see you, girl! I cain’t get to the left o’ you. I cain’t get to the right o’ you. I’m tellin’ you right now it’s on, baby girl. Next time I see you it’s on. Best belie’dat. And grandpa with the walker? I’m talkin’ to you too, boy! I got a walker myself, son. It’s called legs! You gonna see me use ‘em too. I’m fittin’ to put a stomp on you, dog. I’ma stomp you! It’s ’bout to get craaaaaaazy!
How a dude sposed to get his think on during his midday walk? How I’m sposed to do that?! I got too much love in my heart, ya’ll!
Now cue my mu’fuckin’ music!
…
…
!!!
I don’t know how to cue the mu’fuckin’ music.
So here’s a picture of a kitten playin’ the piano instead, nugga.
That shit is gangsta.
My name is Ben and I just blitzed this shit. Nugga.
This is so stupid even I must comment
Now ordinarily I would prefer a gay raping to a conversation about sexual politics. But this time they’ve pushed me too far.
What I love most is that this young girl comes home from school excited about what she learned. How many times as a child were you eager to discuss a day’s lesson with your parents? Here’s an example from my childhood of a dinner-time conversation between my mother and I:
MOM: How was school today?
BEN: Boring.
MOM: What did you learn?
BEN: Nothing.
MOM: Nothing?
BEN: Can I eat dinner in the TV room? Who’s The Boss is on.
And of course my mother said yes, because who can resist Tony Danza. But this little lesbian was geeked about her day. She WANTED to discuss. Mom sees this book her kid brings home and makes a face as if the cover illustrated the two gay princes double-teaming a court jester.
Then comes the line that first caught my attention: “Schools started teaching second graders that boys could marry boys.” Okay, first of all, no. Boys cannot marry boys. Boys can’t marry anyone. Marriage is an act of love between a man and a woman. Or a woman and a woman. Or a man and a man. Or a man and a bunch of women. Or a woman and a dolphin http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/10694972/. Or a man and a robot http://gizmodo.com/367698/technosexual-one-mans-tale-of-robot-love. Or peanut butter and jelly. There’s a love affair that has never been tested. I was raised to believe marriage was intended for the PERSON, be it man or woman, you are dumb enough to impregnate. HIYO!
“It’s okay for boys to marry boys.” Are they speaking directly to the second graders? Second graders can’t vote! And if they could, I bet they’d vote to marry other boys. Girls are icky! Well I’ve been on the planet for over 31 years now and, hell, I’ll say it: Girls are still icky! Second grade boys, you SHOULD marry other boys. Whether your teacher tells you it’s okay or not.
Wow, this blog took a different direction than anticipated. I think I’m promoting juvenile homosexuality. Let me think about this for a moment. Hmmmm. Yep, I’m okay with it.
Before I go, here’s another Prop 8 commercial, this one featuring a little blond-haired, blue-eyed Aryan girl. If you thought the first ad banked on cuteness and adolescent ignorance, wait until you see this. Hitler Youth in the mother-f’ing house!
My name is Ben and I got all political on this blog.
My Name is Ben
