Backoff timer expiring in 6…5…4…3:
Fuck it.
As a great man once said, “Buy the ticket. Take the ride.”
You haven’t heard from me in a while. Judging by the vast quantities of comments and emails received, Pat and Tony may have noticed. Possibly.
You’re the audience. Were you listening? Are you even listening now? I may never know.
During that time, somewhere in the back of my brain, the entire idea for this column was mutating. It was meant to be a place where I’d try and talk a bit about social media, and perhaps inspire you to dig deeper. To get to the meat of what we’re saying to each other, so you could sit down and chew the fat.
Instead, I feel I was putting out rehashed puffballs of fluffy crap that maybe interested someone for a nanosecond and were quickly forgotten beneath the buzz provided by their grande mocha half-fat latte.
The anger I felt towards myself for this turned the whole thing into a rotting idea in the back of my mind. I sacrificed my hate to it for the last week and watched it evolve into a sphere of grey-green ichor, pulsing like the heartbeat of a meth addict in a marathon and screaming a chainsaw scream.
This morning, as my inner eye roved over this magnificent horror again, I found a mottled rat standing atop the thing as if it were a soapbox. His one good eye had a gearwork monocle screwed into it, and the other sported a jaunty patch. He clutched a bottle of Bushmills in one scabrous claw, and pointed the other at me in mute indignation, as if asking what I was gonna do about this thing.
Based on the scuff marks on my knuckles, the fire in my belly, and the half gone bottle I whiskey I spy on the desk before me, I beat the little fucker to death. Possibly with this keyboard. Then I assume I ate the mutated idea. Who knows how long I’ll be spewing this thing up.
Social media has me spinning in all directions. It’s the most gloriously useless thing we’ve ever had access to as a species.
It’s as if we had telepathy, and all we ever used it for was to tell people what we had for lunch.
Goddamn, we’re idiots. I include myself in that, by the by. Look at what I’m doing with social media right now. I should be organizing a takeover of this horrific government we’ve enslaved ourselves to, and instead I’m typing up this tripe. One nation, under polarization. Divided we fall; United we rust. It makes me pissed at myself all over again.
So, on a (mostly) weekly basis, I’ll now be screaming whatever the fuck I like in this space. It could be social media bullshit. It could be articles on why I think tech sucks. It could be a book review. It could be an unboxing of my Nexus One, if the thing ever comes out on Verizon. It could be a 4 minute Youtube video of me getting drunk and falling down. I promise to keep my pants on. Wearing them on my head counts.
Stop by, and get your dose of vitriol. Drink it up, you little shits. You’ll have to lap it up out of your hands, because daddy sold the cups and spoons for whiskey money.
If you don’t care for the tone this column has taken, write me a letter and let me know. Email works, but I can only guarantee it will be read if you wrap the missive around a liquor bottle and leave it on my front porch. Gin would be good. Gin makes a man mean.
…2…1. Backoff timer expired. You are free to transmit.
