I love it. The sound of it, the feel of it, everything about it. It’s awesome on every level. Such a glorious song.
Yeah, it’s a song. See, most of you aren’t going to realize that because you’re too busy listening to the tofu music, but I digress.
Do I have your attention?
I guess this post is gonna be my place to throw out some ideas. A few of ’em are the beginnings of jokes I want to form into stand-up material (maybe), while another is a screenplay idea I’ve had floating around in my head for the past week. Don’t like the sound of that? Then go play your World of Warcraft and piss in a bottle or do whatever it is you people do.
You know how Facebook sometimes has those fake spam accounts that add you at random? You accept their friend request because the picture is usually a smokin’ hot brunette in a bikini with lots of alcohol in her profile picture. Hell, it says she’s Russian, so you know she’s DTF as a MF! You think, “Score!” And then shit goes a little weird: she doesn’t post any updates, she doesn’t have any other pictures, her favorite movie is “True Romance.” A girl who doesn’t speak, take annoying pictures, AND her favorite movie is an obscure Tarantino-written masterpiece that not many people have heard of?! TOO. GOOD. TO. BE. TRUE!!!
Get your head out of your ass, man; the bitch is OBVIOUSLY a robot. So now it’s up to you to take the proper precautions. Don’t just delete her, report her trickster ass to the Facebook 5-0 immediately. So there you are filling out a report against your holographic dream girl, tears in your eyes because another woman is lost. Just as you’re about to click the little “Report” button you see the disclaimer that Facebook has put up: “Listen, are you sure this is spam? We take this shit REALLY seriously and Mark Zuckerberg hits us if we make any false reports. Really man? Do you really want us to get a belt the back of the head? Think about this!”
You think for a bit and finally…reported. The deed is done. She’s no longer you’re friend and her account is being investigated by the FBI, CIA, DNR, INS, IRS, PETA, and a group of guys who worship “Battlefield Earth.” At night you toss and turn, wondering if you made the right decision, wondering if some innocent Russian girl is going to wake up to the sound of helicopters and a battering ram. Then you fall asleep.
The next day you wake up, take a shower, eat your Frankenberry, and head downstairs to watch Diane Sawyer in a skin tight pantsuit. WIN! The breaking story is some heartwarming piece about a blind kid whose seeing eye dog lets him ride him to school every morning. Not too shabby. Just then Diane says something that grabs your attention: “We turn now to Russia, where a young girl is apparently devastated after her Facebook was reported as fake.” Your eyes widen, your heart sinks, your blood boils. What the fuck have you done?! The news report turns to a shot of a beaten up girl in the back seat of an ambulance, blanket draped over her shoulders and tears in her eyes. Her Russian voice whimpers as she speaks: “I…I just wanted to have Facebook like normal boys and girls in America. I even add cute American boy to help me to feel more normal. And now…now it’s all gone.” She cries heavily. It cuts back to Diane Sawyer who is shaking her head in disgust. “What kind of sick person would do this?” she asks. “Filth. Absolute filth.”
This one is much shorter and less thought out.
So, I feel like prepaid phones are a good topic to talk about in comedy. Most people around here have NO fucking clue that such things even exist, so talking about them in a crowd full of these people would be pretty amusing. I, myself, actually have one because I’m 1) poor, 2) cheap, and 3) really poor. So…
The world is dominated by smartphones nowadays. I mean, these motherfucking time machines are becoming so smart that they’re actually starting to tell YOU what to do instead of vice versa. One of my friends actually woke up at 8 AM one morning, clicked on an app called “What Am I Doing Today?” and, well, it was terrifying. This thing started yelling in a way that only Michael Clarke Duncan and Samuel L. Jackson’s illegitimate love child could. It started out by saying, “Eight o’clock in the goddamn morning? Motherfucker, you best start getting up at seven everyday! By eight you should be eating a nutritious breakfast!” From there it continued. “Eat lunch at exactly twelve so your fucking metabolism stays high and you don’t turn out like your fat friend over there. Yeeeeeeeah, I see you. Buy a fucking smartphone, fool!” I asked my friend why he let his phone talk to him like that and he said, “He just wants me to be healthy. Back off.”
So anyways, what’s worse than HAVING a prepaid phone is buying one. Well, I couldn’t actually afford to get it so my friend — the one with the smartphone, remember him? — actually bought me one. We were in the store and I was bitching about being disconnected from the world. Without warning he decided to take it upon himself to go ask a store clerk (apparently one of his other friends) for help. He came over and the following conversation was had:
“Man, you sure you want a prepaid phone?”
“Oh it’s not for me, it’s for my grandma. She needs a simple phone.” *As to not embarrass the hell out of me.*
“Which one you do you want?”
“I’ll take the one at the bottom. No, not that one. The cheap $10 one. Yeah, that one!”
“Alright man. You want to buy a minute card too?”
“Yeah sure. Throw $25 bucks on there for me.”
“You know it’s $50 for a pla-”
“Yeah, I don’t talk to her much. None of the grandkids really do. Go cheap.”
After this wonderful transaction took place my friend and I left the building and waited until we were in the parking lot to open it up. It took THIS MUCH effort just to not make me feel like a total shithead. Prepaid phones are like the Christmas sweaters of modern technology.