A Myspace Bulletin is NOT the Answer

My kindergarten flame had her soul broken recently. I don't know what the fuck happened because I haven't read her new Myspace blog. But I did read the fucking bulletin announcing it.

I skimmed through the other six she sent out too.

Myspace bulletins are the internet equivalent of that little shit at the public pool with the permanent Kool-Aid lips who keeps asking his mother to watch his cannonballs.

New pics!
New background!
New song!
New survey I spent 20+ minutes on!

Look, look, look!

We are a generation of attention whores. Nothing matters unless other people confirm that it matters.

In bubbly, glittery letters.

Like my kindergarten flame, we rely too much on others -- on our "gurlz" -- to massage our egos and assuage our grief. We're self-important. We actually think people give a fuck that our favorite color is green, or black if you're gothic or have a similar, cutting-edge style and/or personality.

It's like calling somebody over to admire the bits of corn and threads of protein in a monster shit you just took.

Impressive to you, maybe, but it didn't come from my asshole so why should I give half a fuck? I shouldn't. And I don't. Nobody does. Yet you receive comments.

Why?

Because those people want comments in return. There are no selfless comments on Myspace. No genuine concern. "Just saying hey" is code for "I still want to fuck you. Write back and acknowledge my existence."

The more comments you have, the more page views you have. The more page views you have, the more bulletins you've sent out.

Unless you're somebody like Dane Cook. Then your comments are proportionate to how famous you got from yelling.

All of this amounts to greater self-esteem. You've cultivated a persona that people pretend to care about on the internet. It doesn't matter that your coworkers think you're a fucking disgusting slob that smells like ass.

In real life you're 300 lbs. On Myspace you're a BBW with a fanbase consisting of thuggish black guys who say "ma" a lot and bald, forty-something white guys who weigh less than your labia. They worship the rolodex that is your stomach and they'd eat a mile of your shit just to get to your ass.

You're a celebrity. So why not share everything with them that pertains to you?

Newsflash: If you have 30 - 60 minutes to kill and you opt to fill out a jumbo fucking survey then you're not worth reading about, regardless of how much you THINK are.

Sorry, shithead.

Here's a short, to-the-point list of the bulletins I hate the most:

6. wut would u do 2 me if we were alone

If I mention autoerotic asphyxiation will you be freaked out?

5. repost 2 see who looks at ur profile!!!!!

Right. Because if I catch a hot chick looking at my profile I can jerk off to her pictures thinking that maybe she's into me. And then the nut is that much thicker.

4. OMG! this is soooooo saddd!!!

Some dude gives his girlfriend a fucking rose and dies or a note that says "i cant live without u" after they break-up and dies and if I don't repost this shit then I'm fucked in love for the next ten years. If I repost, my crush will tell me how much she loves me at school tomorrow...

3. cleaning house

If I don't repost this I'm going to be deleted from a friend of a friend's "Friends List". OK... then why the fuck did you add me in the first place?

2. myspace is shutting down!!!

Sign this petition and Tom won't throw away millions of dollars in potential ad revenue because he listens to people who matter in this world, like Mike from Iowa and Tiffy from Florida.

1. do u no ur number 3?

If I want to know more about the third person in your Top 8 -- "Dreamin of U", that ugly chick with the trite e-pout that she thinks makes her look good -- I'll befriend that bitch on my own terms.

Let's use some fucking discretion, OK?

Go drink some Kool-Aid and give the cannonballs a rest.

The Gay Bar

Abercrombie.

That’s what I thought when I heard the thumping bubblegum techno music and saw the clean, tan men in there sandals.

And that was just the parking lot.

I clung to my girlfriend like a semi well-dressed dryer sheet. She had been planning this excursion (notice I didn’t use “outing”) for the past three weeks: “Ooh! Jeff said he’d go to Tribe! Jeff wants to go to Tribe!”

This is true. I wanted to go. Not to find a potential suitor for my asshole or anything like that, but out of general curiosity. Not bi-curiosity.

There’s something fitting about entering a gay bar through the backdoor, like that’s the only a way a first-timer should go in.

Rear penetration.

A hippie-ish redhead checked our IDs and then we were inside and there were ripped, shirtless bartenders pouring pink and purple drinks for mostly good-looking men with perfect, effortless-looking hairstyles that, for me, can only be experienced for a few sweet moments after leaving the stylist’s chair (“I have to do what with the gel again?”).

I was surprised to see a lot of older, fatter gay men there; men who think of something completely different when you mention the Chicago Bears. Once the Thunderpuss Remix of Britney Spears's "Everytime" started to blast through the speakers, they proved to be the fruitiest of the bunch.

There were also plenty of sweaty lesbians in bandanas. More than enough to satisfy Rosie O'Donnell's left labia.

Before I delve further I think I should explain what we were doing here. My girlfriend and I weren’t just a couple of straight people who went to a gay club for shits and giggles. We were there to meet Rob, her manager from Gap Kids, another clean, tan gay guy with a penchant for the 18-20 crowd; the ones searching for an older, experienced teacher to show them the true ways of the dong; the ones whose fathers still have yet to find out that Little League Baseball didn’t pay off in the way they had hoped it would.

A gaydle robber. Bad pun? Yes, I know.

I tried to stay within two feet of my girlfriend as she scoured the crowd for Rob. Because of my large frame, it was hard to squeeze through the crowd and I often found myself bumping up against foreign asses and crotches. The good thing was I didn’t have to apologize. The bad thing was I didn’t have to apologize.

I kept my eyes down like Dylan Walsh in “Congo” when he was about to get mauled by the silverback gorillas. For the first time in my life I knew what it must be like to have a vagina. All the leers and whispers. Somebody ran his hand down my back and I thought I heard a giggle.

Would I be the cub in some bear’s wet dreams?

We finally found Rob near an auxiliary bar area and I calmed down a little and felt less like prey. He was with his friend Chris, a friendly-looking CPA. If he were a girl I think he’d be one of these good girls who may or may not be a closet freak.

My girlfriend, who was already more than a little tipsy from pre-gaming (“I’m having soooo much fun!”) bought the first of three Mattresses – a pinkish-purple drink with orange juice, cranberry, and vodka. Of all the bottles of liquor behind the bar, the one that stood out to me was Knob Creek. Much like the rear entrance, I found it fitting.

And then I saw what I had always expected but had never known for sure.

My Sociology professor was sitting with his back to the bar and chatting it up with three dudes, the most notable being a short 50-year-old with a salt and pepper goatee and gray tank top.

In the car earlier, my girlfriend and I had joked about seeing him here. Two years ago she thought she had seen him at Play, the club next door (we’ll get to that in a moment), but she had her doubts. And now here we were watching him work a small crowd with some inconsequential anecdote that he probably reserves for picking up ass. I stared in awe until he noticed me. He jumped a little, but recovered quickly. I gave a little wave, a gayish wave (by accident), and he extended his hand for me to shake and then went back to scheming on the cock.

A little backstory: Now back at school, before I graduated, I would see this professor in the gym often. In retrospect, I should’ve known he was 100% gay because all he did was work his chest and biceps. Regardless, since I thought he was gay, I spent a lot of conversation time during my last semester telling him how impressed I was with Brokeback Mountain to hint that I was simpatico with the homosexual lifestyle (if another man wants to fuck another man in his ass, who the hell am I to intervene?).

As we moved on, I asked my girlfriend if she had waved at my Sociology professor (she had him too). She said no. In fact, he hadn’t seen her. She was so embarrassed and giggly that she had hidden behind Rob. I thought for a second.

Gym. Brokeback Mountain. Seemingly alone at a gay bar.

Did he think I was gay?

(stay tuned for part 2)