The Low Down Dissing of Social Network Communication Desperation Dawg!

(This is mostly a parody on the socially isolated misfits of network coummunicators.)

Sitting out there in the frontiers of known world in the corner of his attic, I envision some lonely sap, typing responses to his monitor, searching long picture lists of female snap shots, hoping in his deepest soul to connect with some poor fool who might, in a blessed moment, offer him her attention. Too introverted to leave the attic, too desperate to power off. And then one screenshot later he will find his opportunity, the one in a million that would accept his friendship would not have happened had it not been for the wonderful world of network communications. Beautiful Georgia Dixie Love will desire to meet Stick In the Mud 45 from his attic in Wyoming. They will write and chat and reminisce and smile and eventually he will send a picture. Interesting twist, his picture does not divert her interest, so powerful the ability of this captivating magic, and suddenly she will find herself on a long flight to Dale Creek Wyoming, pop. 33, giddy and bubbly.

She arrives from the airport to Dale Creek, Wyoming by travelling down the long highway that heads to Stick in the Mud 45's small prairie house. Three times she rings the door bell and three times she knocks, to no avail. She turns in shame, her abnoxious repetoire littered with standups, tears in the eyes. As the mascara smears across her puffy cheeks, she sits violently down on his broken porch right into a large unrepaired hole between the planks. Her bum slices across a pointy board, tearing her pink capris across the right pocket side. She shreeks in pain and stands up holding her bum, yelling out a loud curse. Still holding her bum, she kicks at the dead weeds in his wraparound plantar, attempting to rhyme profanity with his profile name (don't try it). Stick In the Mud grins through his eyes with satisfaction from the corner of his areal view. She sits down on the porch again, this time taking precaution to scout out the landing site for a painless clearance. Still in a fit, shemopes as her elbows slam against her knees and her head goes down between her knees in shame. In the corner window, 45's once excited eyes now show boredom at her inaction. Suddenly, Dixie Chick lifts her golden head from her lap, pulling a neck muscle from the weight of 3 pounds of hair, 1 pound of touchup makeup, 2 pounds of regular makeup, 7 oz. of Botox, 5 ounces from each of her hoop earrings, and 10 ounces from the Colt Magnum she has hidden under her towering hair bun. Gun you ask?

After wringing and massaging her neck, she jumps to her feet in a burst of rage. With a sadistical tone she calmly speaks, "I refuse to let another one do this, Manly! I didn't come here be stood up again! So I brought a lovely present, a 45 for my 45?" She pulls out the loaded handgun gun from her big hair, carefully avoiding fingernail splits as she cocks it. Stick's eyebrows raise and his eyes grow big at the site. Then, from the non-torn back pocket, she pulls out the damaged photograph of Mariusz Pudzianowski, a "personal" photo that Stick in the Mud had sent her three months previous. Pudzianowski's is the newest member inducted into the Strong Man Competition. As she softly taps the end of the barrel of the Magnum against the photo, she yells loudly into space, "You better come out here and show me these guns before I show you mine!" Stick's grin spreads from cheek to cheek in delight as he shifts his position to peer from a different corner of the pained window.

In a quick burst of speed Dixie Chick rushes around the house, all the time waving her revolver in the air. She goes through the backyard, over the dead plantar, through the scattered garbage and debris to the backdoor, searching the windows; no lights, no sounds, no answer. And all the while Creepy Eyes 45 peers out, clapping with excitement. With a stinky blanket wrapped around his frail body, his body temperature has never raised so high. This human contact almost too unbearable for his sensory input. His body seems to move like a ghost from window to window for a better vantage point of her every move.

In frustration, Dixie stops in exhaustion, tears streaming down her modified face, smearing the five layers of mascara and eyeliner caked theron. Waiting and waiting she stands, checking her bright red digits for fingernail breakage between peering through at quiet doors and through windows to the staleness inside. But no one ever comes, a door is never opened, and the silence of the Wyoming desolation brings fear to her trembling body. In anger she screams and unloads four shots into the wooden siding on the leanto against his house and then throws the revolver through a window. Like the Flash, she instantaneously B-lines towards her Geo Metro on dirt road highway a few hundred yards out. Leatherskin boots clack loudly on the concrete sidewalk as she runs from the house in despair. Taking quick, miniature strides, she arrives to the gravel driveway leading from the house. Her first step brings a twisted ankle as the weight of her body falls into a waterless irrigation ditch alongside the driveway. Throwing off her boots, she jumps to her feet again and hobbles quickly toward the highway to her carriage waitng to carry her away from this recurring and excrusciating humiliation. And yet a less understood grin on 45's sadistical face and chuckling as he imagines her a mutants from Night of the Living Dead.

She finally crosses the highway to her car, which shows the marcations of being scarred from the keying of a hundred yards of barbwire fencing. Bumper Billy Bucks, a local cattle truck driver and midnight Network Communication devotee cruises down the highway at 60 miles an hour, throwing an empty Bud Light can out the window as he heads to the local airport to pick up his latest prospect, I Look Like Brittany Spears 780. Beautiful Georgia Dixie Girl leaves a beautiful, body sized impression in the cattle trucks front windshield. She rolls for a second time into a ditch as Bumper Billy blows his tires with the halt, and 45 witnesses all from the corner of his omniscient attic window pane.

The police come to investigate, her body is carried away in a mummy bag. the funeral bells are heardin 45's house from down the long highway. 45 listens as he peer out the little pane window days later, his face void of emotion. However he has been graced by a solid week of chatroom abstinence for the purpose of his mourner's duties. Time passes and finally he unwraps the thick quilt from around his body. His stiff body recirculates the blood as his processor loads. Suddenly, the beaming light of the LCD gives him his endeared rush. A new web page, a new social networking site, and most importantly, a new profile.

And without regard to the former, he finds the newest flavor as the trauma of Georgia fades to black within hours. This new one is number 780. He likes her because she doesn't look anything like the other 779 listed photos displayed vertically before her. ''I always liked brunettes", he thinks, "but this one will have to do." They passionately write and he discovers she's been to Wyoming, and that in fact, she was stood up at an airport by another profiler. A solid connection is made between the two but the question of romance is left up in the air.

And so the twisted cycle continues.....subscribe to Myspace.com

First Intorduction (the first trial entry)

This blog is to my friends, the bla bla bla blabbers. I must first adress the Miniature Man, my blogging four-foot roommate Kris whose added pressures in the doorstep scene after our double date yesterday makes our simple anxieties in such a scenario seem trivial. Can you imagine being four-foot tall with a 5'3'' girl and having to decide whether the typical end-of-date hug would be even physically possible? While the rest of us males have to re-evaluate the transpiring event that take place during the date in making an executive decision in our door step scene--whether that be a simple handshake, hug, or the over-zealous unfathomable kiss--Kris has to overturn the idea of a less-comfortable and more-awkward handshake with the physical implications of some two-head close proximity symbol of affection that has to be precisely calculated based on female-height ratio to his own. That makes a certain female height range awkwardly impossible, and trying to guess or judge any girl's hope for such an event must be unbearingly difficult! You see, when a male is largely taller than a girl, a simple tippie-toe reach to hug or kiss a boy at the doorstep is actually a desirable and passionate situation, one you see in all the movies and could quite possibly accompany the infamous leg pop. However, on the reverse side, a girl having to bend down for a boy to hug or kiss her is less socially desirable because it is less seen. You would think that many girls would be more excited to have a change in their affection pattern with such an unlikely position. So how do we change this situation? Should we work in the social networks to increase understanding and acceptance of shorter men and the female-bend-to-hug or kiss doorstep scene? No, that would take too long...and it wouldn't be that much fun.

No, instead we first lobby to President Obama to keep taking more money from the federal reserve to make our country completely dependent upon the executive branch. Then we allow him to socialize the country's institutions by giving him as much of our money as possible through taxation so that his cabinet will have all the resources they need to use coercion, theft, and bribery to obtain supreme power and absorb all the government branches into one, making monarchal power possible. Then we elect him King. However, as we do this, we keep back some of the our own money, but only enough to hire Jason Bourne to plug Obama in a helpless moment. Then we elect Kris to be King. Kris will play off all uneasiness of the people through a year of buying off his subjects with bubble gum and groceries, for which we will all so humble learn to love him for. Once he has the support of the people, we move forward to change. We use the people's taxes for technology to make feet implants. Once this is accomplished and in a moment of the nation's complete dependence, we allow Kris to make an executive order. This suggests that all two-year old males have their legs amputated at the knees and feet re-emplaced on the knee stubs. All taller men will eventually die off and though unable to walk appropriately, the next generation of males will be shorter than their female counterparts, and the superficial social constructs of the taller-man to shorter female stygma will be eradicated.