Fucking MySpace Will Take Over Your Life
So, I've been on a grand total of 24 hours and I'm already a junkie. Please disregard any future comments I make where I vow to never do this, or never do that... because I'm fucking full of shit. Just one day ago, I begrudgingly made my profile; and now I'm as giddy as a school girl, logging on to the site and saying shit like, "Oooh, Kelly Princeton added me to her buddy list!" Of course she did, just like she added the 40,000 other assholes. The way things are going, don't be surprised to see me typing shit like "LOL" and "EWG" and "ROTFLMFAO" from here on out. And don't be surprised to hear a fucking Clay Aiken MP3 start playing if you go to my profile. Please, God, somebody shoot me in the fucking head already.
You know what the ultimate ironic twist to all of this is? I'm raving about MySpace... and I'm doing it on a blog. That's right, I'm a blogger with a MySpace account. Sweet Mother of Mercy...
On an unrelated note, the local media here in Detroit is going apeshit over this whole Proof murder scandal. Rappers are fucking morons, no doubt about it... but some of their fans are even worse. Did you guys know that fans of Proof have turned the club where the shootings went down into a makeshift memorial for him? Oh yeah, they're leaving flowers, cards and all kinds of shit--as if the guy was a "hero" or something. And I'm like, "Um... you dumbasses DO realize that he shot and killed someone in cold blood over a fucking game of pool, don't you?" That's right, two people are dead because of an argument over a game of pool. Yeah, what a great guy. Why, just last week I pulled out a gun during a disagreement over an intense round of Trivial Pursuit... because that's how REAL men solve their problems, you know. Fucking dimwits. 8 ball in the corner pocket...
It's things like this that make me wish we could gather all of the rappers up, get them together in a large stadium, lock the doors, make them listen to Beatles records for six hours straight... ("Man, what's wit dis music? It got instruments and singin' and shit!")... and then BLOW THE FUCKERS UP.
That is all.
You know what the ultimate ironic twist to all of this is? I'm raving about MySpace... and I'm doing it on a blog. That's right, I'm a blogger with a MySpace account. Sweet Mother of Mercy...
On an unrelated note, the local media here in Detroit is going apeshit over this whole Proof murder scandal. Rappers are fucking morons, no doubt about it... but some of their fans are even worse. Did you guys know that fans of Proof have turned the club where the shootings went down into a makeshift memorial for him? Oh yeah, they're leaving flowers, cards and all kinds of shit--as if the guy was a "hero" or something. And I'm like, "Um... you dumbasses DO realize that he shot and killed someone in cold blood over a fucking game of pool, don't you?" That's right, two people are dead because of an argument over a game of pool. Yeah, what a great guy. Why, just last week I pulled out a gun during a disagreement over an intense round of Trivial Pursuit... because that's how REAL men solve their problems, you know. Fucking dimwits. 8 ball in the corner pocket...
It's things like this that make me wish we could gather all of the rappers up, get them together in a large stadium, lock the doors, make them listen to Beatles records for six hours straight... ("Man, what's wit dis music? It got instruments and singin' and shit!")... and then BLOW THE FUCKERS UP.
That is all.
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