That was the title of the article that I spent an hour and a half writing this morning. Gather ate it. I hate you, Gather. I hate my cluttered, fucked up page. I hate the way you keep pushing this "Friend Set" thing down my throat. And I hate that, like a dumbass, I fell for the concept of Friend Sets hook, line and motherfucking sinker. I accepted a whole bunch of people thinking I could just filter them out. But I can't and do you know why? Every time I visit my Friend Sets page, I get a SCRIPT ERROR warning. Oh, and let's pretend like I don't have six imaginary friend requests twisting in the wind, and that my sets don't scramble themselves. Let's pretend that everything around here hums like a well-oiled machine. Why don't we all take a few minutes and enjoy some mass-delusion? Yeah, baby. That feels good.
But seriously -- eating my article was Phail; I'll be nursing that grudge for a very long time.
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I have, in scientific measurements, what is known as a "shit ton" of hair and it is naturally curly. I keep it in pretty good shape, but for the regular trims (because those cost money and my damned kids are all spoiled with this "eating regularly" craziness.) Yesterday, I pulled a section of my shit ton of hair back and was rocking a really pretty cascade of curls completely by accident, which made me happy. In an instance of what can best be described as "Joy's WTF?! Luck," a guy sat down next to me at the Tavernacle and started talking to me. This shouldn't be freaky, but it was because he was wearing a necktie at 6:30 on a Sunday. I think we know what sort of people wear ties to bars on $5 pitcher Sundays -- that's right: Crazy People... people who Love Jesus... people who want to tell you how much they Love Jesus... people who want you to know that Jesus Loves you, even if you are sucking down draft beer like somebody's going to take it away from you. But then He really started laying down the Weird.
He said, "Wow! You have pretty hair. Can I touch it?"
Let's pretend for a second that isn't creepy. Let's pretend that it's perfectly normal to walk into a bar, sit down next to a woman, talk to her for five minutes and then ask if you can touch her hair.
IT'S NOT POSSIBLE BECAUSE THAT IS TOO FUCKING WEIRD FOR WORDS! I didn't even know the guy's name... and when I pointed that out, he extended his hand and said, "I'm Randy. Now, can I touch your hair?"
I wanted to say, "No you cannot touch my hair, you nutjob," because that seems like the most rational response in the face of such oddness, without having to resort to kicking someone in the junk. But before I could get the words out, my friend Chris took the option away from me by standing up and looking menacing. The Tie Guy moved three seats down and looked sad. I didn't much care because, seriously -- that's like a prelude to ending up in a dumpster. In pieces.
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I saw a strange Burger King ad last night, with what appears to be the shifty Burger King from the future hanging out with people who are dressed like sperm. Okay, maybe I'm remembering it wrong, but I know it was all futuristic and it really disturbed me. You can't advertise cigarettes on television, but a puppet-y looking guy wearing some sort of festish gear can show up in a bedroom, passing out breakfast wraps and that sends an okay message to the young impressionable minds of America. Really?!
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My stalemate with TV Land continues. They're no longer forcing High School Reunion down my throat 22 times a day because they had to make way for something called, The Big 4-0. This is a show about people turning 40 (der,) and to be honest -- it's retarded. The first episode was about some never-was former football player who was turning 40 and wanted to do something to mark it and make it special. I have no idea what he wanted to do because every time I attempted to pay attention, lights started to flash and I could no longer feel the bottom half of my face. I'm pretty sure he did whatever it was he set out to do because the final scene (which I saw, once I regained consciousness and my motor skills,) was him with some balloons and a cake. I doubt anybody celebrates much if you fail to meet your birthday goals.
Unless they pity you.
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If you're going to go to all the trouble of writing your Gather Armageddon article under your way cool new alias of "Crusader on a mission" (with just that sort of dubious capitalization,) you probably shouldn't out yourself three-quarters of the way through by referring to yourself by your name -- unless you want James Bond to storm into your trailer and kick your ass out of fear that you have somehow superceded him in espionage tricks.
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Draft beer out of taps that haven't been cleaned since the Clinton Era is something akin to drinking Satan's urine. "Cheap" doesn't do anything to improve the experience, either. I'm probably culturing some weird bacteria in my mouth right now that you normally don't see north of the Equator. My tongue feels swollen and, let me tell you -- that's not a pleasant sensation.
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One of the points made in the Armageddon article had something to do with enemies of the United States on Gather. Does Osama Bin Laden have a Gather account? (HINT: If he doesn't, he should. Ditto Kim Jong-Il.) Can you redeem Gather Points for 72 virgins or some plutonium? I wouldn't know since I can't actually get into the redemption area, even using everybody's cool tricks of creating a diversion and then sneaking by the system.
Also, the rest of you can settle for being in a Gather Gutter Gang or whatever. I saw "Overlord" mentioned and that's what I want to be. I'll bet the uniform is nicer, with plenty of gold braid and epaulets. Admit it: Nothing says "class" like some nice epaulets.