Saturday, February 03, 2007 2:31 PM - Deleted Users
Current mood: crazy
Category: Lost In Space - MySpace
I kept getting messages from this guy "Deleted User." He kept bugging me to add him, to view his profile, to sign up for his adult dating service, to join his Myspace Internet Pyramid Marketing group, and to send money to Nigeria. So I finally added him just to shut him up. It worked!
Now I'm not recommending that everybody do this, but you've got to remember that even deleted users have feelings. Maybe not feelings like normal people on Earth, but more like the feelings a space alien would have if you stepped on his right anterior tentacle. Sure, they scream "Zignat!" (that's alien for "owieeee!") and accept your apology - but it goes way further than that. You've injured their pride, their dignity, their very sense of being. Who will soothe the damaged ego of a Beliosian octopod? Think about it.
So, the next time you see a "Deleted User" pop up on your screen, think
twice before denying him the simple human contact he craves. Give
a second thought to who is on the other end of that profile - a living,
breathing, feeling being with basic emotional needs crying out to be met.
Then, and only then, you can give him a third thought - deny their sorry
human or alien ass and report them to Myspace as the evil spamming vermin
they are.
Saturday, July 22, 2006 4:39 PM - Paranoidal Experiences
Current mood: Snarky
Category: Snarky - Writing and Poetry
It was 8:00, and some idiot was on my door. On Saturdays, I usually sleep in until 10 am and then watch some crappy kiddie cartoons or an old episode of MAD TV, but not today, thanks to Mr. Jerkface ringing the bell like a sadomasochistic Jehovah's Witness looking for his daily dose of verbal abuse.
I crawled out of bed like an alligator crawling from a New York sewer and grabbed my stack of metaphoric cliches as I headed to the door. Who was it this time? Amway salesman? Lame survey person? Cable guy trying to collect on the overdue bill before climbing the pole and turning it off?
No, it was those damn door-to-door space aliens again. You know, the assholes who park their freakin' mother ship in your driveway and their broken warp drive leaks gravitons all over your new concrete. Yeah, that'll come right out when you wash it with a mixture of dechyons and corbomite. Sure.
So I open the door, and before Lizardface Lameass has a chance to pitch his out-of-this-galaxy new ass implants or antigravity cleaning solution, I blurt out "We don't want any!" His sidekick, or maybe it was his wife - who can tell what gender these things are, and I ain't lifting it's tail to find out - starts crying those big alien tears. You know, the ones that kill the carpenter ants in the wood steps along with the neighborhood cats and an occasional neighbor. "Hey, I wasn't trying to upset you" I said, with my fingers crossed behind my back. "What do you want?"
"We are travelers from a galaxy far, far away." I held back a guffaw, a chortle, a snicker, and probably a bit of last night's dinner. "Our starship has run out of fuel. Could you help two stranded travelers?"
"You guys have a lotta nerve." I stepped back. "Trying to bum dilithium crystals off me at 8 in the morning! Well..." I reached behind my back, "...here's a shovel. Go dig your own!"
"But we have five children waiting in the starship. They need food and water..."
"Look, I don't care what stinkin' galaxy you're from. Get your scaly asses back on that ship and get it the Ford Prefect outta my driveway!"
They dragged tail back to the ship, and took off with a roar that only could have come from a recently filled dilithium chamber. Damn scam artists, they come from all corners of the galaxy wanting me to pay up front to have my driveway repaved or give them my bank account number to transfer ten million credits out of some alien planet.
Screw 'em. And they can keep the damn shovel.
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