Enlightening Nonsense

Last month I joined Facebook and in so doing apparently joined the 21^st Century. Well, that’s not entirely true. I didn’t exactly join it—my martial arts teacher signed me up for it. Was he concerned about my hermetic social life as the New York City equivalent of a cave-sitter? No, he’s just a money-grubbing Jew and wanted me to post announcements and items about his martial arts school so he can fill the bag of gold around his neck.

“Why,” you ask, “did I you wait so long?” Is it because Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg turned me down when in a fit of excitement over the legalization of gay marriage in New York I asked him to be my lawfully wedded fag? Is it because I am a paranoid conspiracy theorist who wears tinfoil on my head and didn’t want the government knowing who I poke? Or maybe it’s because I just don’t give enough of a shit to reconnect with high school losers I tried to avoid 25 years ago. The answer: all of the above and a few things more.

I filled out the requisite information—where I went to high school, which teachers in college allowed me to add a half a letter to my grade by jerking them off in the bathroom, twenty-five different ways I have masturbated with a sock—to which I received a personal note from Mark Zuckerberg when I listed #18, “rolled in a ball stimulating my prostate,” asking whether I would suggest he use a natural or synthetic fiber sock. And when I thought I was pretty much done, I hit Enter or Return or Accept or Done and angels sung “Hallelujah” and I was officially indoctrinated into the Flock of Facebook.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And then the confusion set in. Suddenly there was a list of about 60 people that wanted to be my “friend.” I use that term loosely, similarly to the way a man in a raincoat sitting next to you at the gay porn movie theater pulls out his wiener and introduces you to his “friend.”

Who the heck are these people? Most came from my high school, which included people who I didn’t know and others who I did know and wished I didn’t. I even got a message from Dean Wormbag, some guy who I knew little more than the fact that he did go to my high school. “Hey Swam old boy! How’s it going, buddy?”

Now I don’t necessarily mind someone trying to befriend another fellow but keep it real, shall we? Don’t call me by a nickname or act like we are friends when you don’t know me and I don’t know you. I thought the whole point of this tom douchery is that you are asking me to be your friend!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now, sure, I was well known in high school. I played soccer and was Student Government President, of which I won by a landslide of over 50% of the votes because I ran a funny campaign, which included a hip theme song recorded by my friend Cutsdin—because every good hero should have one—and “X is Lax” Styrofoam cup hats with a cotton ball on top, my mother’s brainchild which became even more hilarious when Mike Graveyard, the biggest, blackest, meanest dude in the school wore one and looked like the cartoon monkey with the music box! I ran solely because I thought it would help me get into colleges and because after Mark Zuckerberg kicked me out of the Nerd Club for wearing a pair of eyeglasses that weren’t held together by tape, I vowed to beat those goofballs in every venue they had previously championed.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e3oeAlOtbkE

So with my notoriety, I get why people would want to cuddle up to my popular nutsack. But the question even more perplexing than “Who invented liquid soap and why?” is why would I want to share rolled up socks with a bunch of losers?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NF9Ko9gOrSk&feature=related

[The liquid soap line came from the movie “The Sure Thing” with John Cusack. I couldn’t find the clip but this clip from the movie is pretty funny.]

Enter Dean Wormbag and his annoyingly ingratiating message, to which I couldn’t help but to respond to in an unaffectionate way. After a few back and forths than left me more confused as to why this guy was continuing to pursue me as a friend, Wormy wrote me a note that said, “Sorry if I was ever a jerk in high school” which apparently was my tipping point. I wrote back, “I don’t mean this facetiously, but did we ever actually talk in high school, even once?” He said we in fact most probably didn’t but we both walked in the political circles. And that was it for his life, liberty and the pursuit of friend-iness.

I felt like a bouncer at a she-she club, deciding the social fate of the club goers based solely on who had the nicest rack or not. I accepted some people as my “friends” but was hesitant to accept the entire slew of desperados. Did they feel bad about my snubbery? I don’t even know how this Facebook crap even works, whether people are glued to their computers each day and wondering, “Why isn’t Swami X friending me??” or whether, like last weeks episode of “Two Men And A Baby,” whether it is long forgotten except for the slight taste of puke in your mouth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And then there is the WALL. Apparently because I wrote that I like dogs and yoga and South Park, a bunch of people who I don’t know or care about have access to post things that wind up on my Facebook homepage. If I actually cared to invest more time in this social mess, I might delete all acknowledgement that I like anything in this god forsaken world just to have a clean wall.

Pretty much the only time I would go to Facebook would be when I received an email from the kickboxing studio that I work at that said there was a new message on the staff page, meaning just for us staffers, or someone had “tagged” me, which meant that they posted a picture with me in it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But despite my distaste for everything trendy, there is no question that Facebook has changed social interaction in today’s world. I’m not exactly sure how but I do know that there was a movie based on it and that Mark Zuckerberg won Time Magazine’s Man Of The Year—oh, I’m sorry, I forgot the lesbian brigade that had it changed to “Person Of The Year”—despite me submitting a couple of dozen votes for Ron Jeremy. I did know that a few of my friends outside of the world of illusion on Facebook used Facebook to promote their events and for business.

So today I decided to open up a Facebook account separate from the one that my martial arts teacher opened for me and which I followed through by jumping through a few hoops and raising up my front paws to avoid being hit with the cattle prod, to possibly promote my yoga business. I figured I could make announcements to my mostly “by donation” events on Facebook and this should turn me into a millionaire within a few weeks, give or take two days either way. Little did I know that this stupid social network would lead to me getting into an argument with Ogre. Then again, the sun rising is enough for Ogre and me to get into an argument.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I had text-messaged Ogre and we were talking small nothings. She told me about how she had been busy today and I ended up contributing that I had been working on Facebook and Yahoo Groups to try and promote my yoga business.

“You’re on Facebook?” she wrote and because she never just asks a question solely for factual information, I knew I had somehow stepped in quickshit, which is a shitty version of quicksand, and that not only would I soon be drowning in bullshit, but somehow when they finally dragged my dead and shit-bloated body out of there, I would somehow be found guilty of bludgeoning the back of my own head with a heavy pipe and then swan diving into the quickshit on my own accord.

When I received her text: “It just confirms certain things for me in a way. But I’ll get over it. Emotionally speaking,” I was about ready to bludgeon myself and take the shitty swan dive just to stop the voices in my head that were hers! I had written her a text where I told her that I never use Facebook and almost never even think of the darn thing unless Zuckerberg is whining about me wiping my dick on his curtains after I fuck him in the ass—and that is why I never mentioned it.

I ended up calling her up, which is something I actually dread at this point, fearful that my asking, “How was your day?” will become an argument over how the implication is that I don’t care about her night and if I am going to be such a half-concerned person in her life I might as well mind my own fuckin’ business!

She asked me how long I’ve been on Facebook. I told her that I just created Rebel Yogi Swami X today and that my other Facebook had probably been active, if you can call never using it “active,” for about a month.

“Why didn’t you friend me?”

Dude, for real? This reminds me of the South Park where Stan’s father keeps annoying him with a head in the doorway and saying, “Stan, your grandmother poked you and she said you haven’t poked her back.”

 

I told her that I literally hadn’t looked up or requested A SINGLE PERSON to be my “friend” but that a bunch of high school losers had contacted me and that I had accepted a few, as well as staff and a few members from the kickboxing school, as so-called “friends.”

“I just find this strange.” And thus a little molehill became a mountain and a little mole became crushed under the weight of a megaton of dirt.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I explained again that Facebook meant nothing to me, that I don’t check it every day, that I pretty much only go on there when there is a message in my email box that has a Facebook message from my martial arts teacher to which I’ll hit the link that brings me to Facebook in order to respond.

She started talking psycho-babble and I knew now she was preparing to hold my head down in the quickshit. “You’re not hearing me but instead defending yourself.” I’m hearing that you’re a fuckin’ nutjob is what I’m hearing!

I told her that I literally hadn’t looked up or requested A SINGLE PERSON to be my “friend” but that a bunch of high school losers had contacted me and that I had accepted a few, as well as staff and a few members from the kickboxing school, as so-called “friends.” Even a “friend” request from my mother appeared that I ignored, not because I find her an annoying nag (which I do!) but because I refuse to play the whole, “Gee, I now have 447 friends. Aren’t I popular!” thing. Not to mention that my “wall” would suddenly be filled with her graffiti of “Took the grandkids to lunch today; Sydney burped from drinking soda too fast,” to the point where I would finally seek to fill the “my mother’s grave” that I have been swearing on.

She then told me how she talked to her friends about this, I’m assuming her real-world friends and not her Facebook “friends,” and they all agreed with her that this was strange. I’m guessing that my lawyer wasn’t present to represent my case adequately and so I was essentially tried in absentia.

This reminds me of the time in Ogre’s kitchen when she was bloated apparently from accidentally taking whale hormones and asked me if I found her more attractive when she was thinner. I said, “I am attracted to you and not focused on your body.” She asked it again, “But are you more attracted to me when I am thinner?” to which I again answered in a like manner, “I don’t really care about your body. I’m into you.” By the eighth time and 15-minutes later when she hypothesized the question to the point where I was led to believe that this is what she wanted to hear and that I was safe in saying so, I said, “I suppose a little bit,” to which she reported to her best friend Broke that, “He said that he is more attracted to me when she I am thinner.” Yeah, that was how it went down.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I would have probably been just as headfirst in the quickshit if I said, “I wouldn’t really use the words ‘more’ or ‘less.’ To use an analogy that I think will be helpful, it is more like a light switch. When you are thin I am totally ‘ON.’ And when you are a bloated, fat pig like you are now, I am switched completely ‘OFF.’ You see? No ‘more’ or ‘less.’ Thin—ON. Fat—OFF. This is not a dimmer switch we’re talking about here; just a straight up flip ON/OFF switch. I’m happy to delve into this further if you need because I think clear understanding is a pillar of a good relationship, Porky.”

Not to mention that her friends are probably all like her, little princesses who never have their iPhone or Blackberry more than three inches from their ears and can’t carry on a complete conversation with anyone without looking down at their electronic teddy bear and laughing while saying, “Jan just saw a squirrel that looked like a Chihuahua. L-O-L!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I also know that Ogre can be a little, shall we say “intimidating”? When she and Broke recently saw Hall & Oats in concert because apparently the band’s kiss was on the girls’ list, they were nonplussed and left early, as Ogre has a policy that she will not waste her time on anything she finds not life-enhancing—unless he fucks her like a Tantra Master, in which case she’ll keep him around, screw him once in awhile and then pick on every little nothing he says or does to expand into a relationship-breaking issue that “confirms things” that deserve to be confirmed as much as Constitutional nightmare Sonia Sotomayer did to the Supreme Court.

When I asked Broke what she thought of the concert she started, “I just found it was like way too retro and—“

Ogre jumped in, as it is hard for her to let someone else express an opinion unless he or she is a ventriloquist dummy with her hand in said dummy’s back. “It was totally not retro. That was the problem!” I’ve wiped my feet on thinner doormats than Broke and she immediately took a 180 degree turn and said, “No, it wasn’t retro…” and I don’t know what she said after this but she might as well have said, “Whatever Ogre says is right.”

 

 

When I called Ogre, I LITERALLY thought that she would hear that I don’t give a rat’s ass about Facebook and don’t really use it and all her feelings of “strange” would dissipate like the morning haze with the rising sun. I didn’t anticipate it would end with her hanging up on me and writing me a text message that said:

“Stay away from me” only to be followed by another 22-minutes later that said, “And do not write me any emails. I will not read them.”

I wonder what would have happened if after I called and explained my non-relationship with Facebook and Ogre said she still felt “strange” if I said, “Okay, well get over it,” in the same way that comedian Bill Hicks answered the two Christians who said to him after a show, “Hey Buddy, we’re Christians, we don’t like what you said” with, “Then forgive me.” I used to misquote Bill Hicks and say this line as, “Then forget me.”

I had hoped Ogre would not forget about me but forget about her feeling of “strange,” which was just a little blip on her radar screen and not “confirmation” of a fleet of Jap Zeros in flight to bomb our harbor. Let it go. No big deal. Think and grow rich. Maybe if she was a Christian instead of a Jew she could “forgive me” for thinking Facebook not even worthy enough to mention.