(Contributions from Jane Lane)
There has been a “controversy” rampaging the shit out of various segments of the media. The wool was pulled over your eyes, people. We’re talking cover-up you easily fooled sacks. A sham! Flim-flam! Even a semi-syndicated talk show exposed this farce. I can’t think of any synonyms for sham, flim-flam, and cover-up, so let’s get to the point.
Ren is not real.
Depend on your personal choice of media outlet, you heard it hear first. The little blonde Irish elf does not exist. Sorry, people. It was bound to be discovered sometime. FWTC did its level best backstopping a cover story for “Ren” and build a solid base for our house of lies. But, you were too smart. The Geraldo Riveras in podcast and Internet land Sherlock Holmes-ed themselves to uncover the truth. Hats off to everyone who has a degree in criminology. Degrees from un-accredited schools from Indonesia on a distance learning program. But, who am I to judge. Apparently, nobody. You can’t make judgements when you don’t exist.
No, friends, Ren does not exist. I… I mean, “SHE” is just a practical joke. A combination of industry logos and urban legend. You’ve all been duped. I am….. shit, I mean, “SHE” is a scam. No one can agree on what kind of scam or who the hell “she” really is. It could be some sort of Irish pyramid scheme. Perhaps, some twisted person or persons came up with the idea to josh an entire nation just to create a publicity stunt to sell prophylactics made of bison scrotum.
Just like Roswell and Bigfoot, there are a few leading theories about who I… fuck! Who “she” really is. Here are just a few:
1. “She’s” a fat guy
This is, probably, the most obvious I mean, come on! We all know the vast majority of the “women” on the interwebs are fat, sweaty fucks with a tiny dicks. Christ, 90% of the “women” on Facebook are guys. It’s completely conceivable that this “Ren” character is really just some fat slob desperate for attention. Come on! This “girl” likes to drink, bang her “husband,” and loves the meat. Get it? Loves the meat?
There’s NO WAY a “woman” like that in the world. Check that. NO FUCKING WAY! That shit is like turning lead into gold. It’s all a myth. Hearsay. It’s just not possible that a “female” can actually enjoy meat and meat byproducts along with alcohol and and steady stream of fucking the husband.
So, yeah. That’s got to be it. Unless…
2. “She’s” a
Bots are annoying. Bots are cunning. Bots are fucking sneaky. How many times have you gotten a message from “Eliza Dushku” or “Avril Lavigne” or.. I don’t know… “God?” Well, we all sure as hell know it’s really some sweaty programer with more body odor than appeal.
This makes sense. First, you just scour the Net, and find a random girl on Facebook and second, pirate the fuck out of any pics set to “public.” Throw in a dash of spyware and a sprinkle of rerouting virus then, fucking viola! You got yourself insta-Ren!
The main issue with these bots is that many of them are programmed to adjust to new perimeters. To adapt to new spam filters. To… evolve. If this, “Ren” is a spam bot, it’s more than just your basic con to worm its way into your hard drive. Come on, people! That’s one more fucking step towards sentience! Christ, we’re all focused on the wrong issue!
3. “She’s” a fat chick
Dude, just re-read #1 and replace all the “guys” with “chicks.” You can leave the “tiny dick” part. Depending on the fat chick.
4. “She’s” is really a government conspiracy
It’s not unusual to suspect the government, any government (except Canada, I guess) in a shit ton of covert operations and secret programs that inject nanobots into unsuspecting children’s flu shots to build a perfect combination of man and machine.
5. “She’s” a celestial or atmospheric phenomenon
The less plausible theory being proposed by the most plausible stalkers (and their sad sad lives). This “Ren” is closer to the aurora borealis or some sort of Helix Nebula… The Eye of God, if you will.
It has been proven or, at the very least, conceptually kicked around that celestial physics can theoretically influence a person’s consciousness. Don’t believe me? Fine. Don’t. I don’t fucking care. See it for yourself. Pony up the dough to attend the “Toward the Science of Consciousness “at the University of Arizona‘s Center for Consciousness. Take the kids and come on down to God’s misshapen ash can. Takes pictures of an honest-to-god astrophysicist! But what’s fun without some learning? It’s bullshit… that’s what it is. Included in this dream package you will have your choice of murderously boring lectures. Oooooooo will it be the on discussing quantum influences on the brain. No wait! The lecture about electromagnetic flares hurdling to Earth like New Jersey Governor Chris Christie warp speeding to the Buffet King. We’re onto you, “science.”
6. “She’s” a incorporeal essence within us all
How do we know God exists? How about Allah, Buddha, or whatever the fuck the Vikings worshiped?
When annoying push comes to asinine shove, you don’t. As a “modern” society, we tend to incredulously cast looks toward our ancestors and remark on how “quaint” their beliefs were.
Every society does that to the society that came before theirs. We’re not running around worshiping the sun or offering our children to Yahweh on a funeral pyre. Not often these days, anyway. However, we cling on to our “enlightened” (enough with the fucking quotations, already) religious philosophies. Jews KNOW God exists. Muslims KNOW Allah is watching over them. Christians KNOW Jesus was the Son of God. Throw the Dali Lama in there while we’re at it. His followers KNOW he is the reincarnation of the reincarnation of the reincarnation of the first… um… Lama?
OK, so what’s the fucking point? Each and every follower of every religion can’t produce concrete proof that their god(s) exist. Shiva isn’t in the directory and Thor doesn’t have a Facebook page.
Even atheists believe that there is no higher power to the point where that disbelief turns into their beliefs. So, is it possible that this fictitious “Ren” actually exists in the hearts of man? Does “she” exist in our actions? Our thoughts? Our dreams? Is it possible that there is a little bit of “Ren” in all of us? How the fuck should I know? I don’t exist. Ask someone who isn’t a figment of your imagination.
*When not writing for the Fuse Was Too Cold, “Ren” exists only in the world of imagination.
*When not contributing, Jane Lane exists to make you miserable to the point of embracing the sweet release of death..
Yeah, it’s almost December and we’re just now putting this into the AMNESIA LANE chute. Don’t care. READ IT! Who wouldn’t want to read about Roode’s pumpkin carving inadequacies?
Let me start this off by telling you that I HAD two brothers. I am the middle child and, therefore, the most well-adjusted. My older brother, Greg, is an uptight douche bag with a uber responsible job, a family and a dog. Or, is it a dog and a family. I’m not sure how that goes. We’re from Alberta, so a dog ranks a little higher than a spouse and children. It’s a law, actually.
My younger brother and the weakest of the herd, Gene, has a section in his brain where all the surviving brain cells hid from the alcohol and pot holocaust waged through his grey matter for four straight years at the University of Calgary. A bunker if you will.
Sure, he has the demigod-esq genes all we Roodes have been blessed with; physique of granite, extreme sexual prowess- unmatched by mere mortals, and well, let’s just say our junk has been studied by the finest sexologists for generations. To this day, it is unexplained how the Roode men have achieved the perfect combination of girth and length.. never mind, it would take too long to explain and require a lot of charts to do it correctly.
All that aside, Gene, has never been a bright man. At least when it came to women. Like all Roodes, he would control the situation with his Zeus-esq presence and Captain James T. Kirk-like knack for seducing women without really trying.
When it came to female mind games, he didn’t fare so well. Using their voodoo magic, the girls would infiltrate his mind and rummage through it like a box of second-hand clothes at a flea market. He would do shit like listen to their stories, open doors for them, surprise them with roses… FOR NO REASON! I mean, come on! Roses don’t make an appearance until after you’ve accidentally set fire to her car.
Then he meets Ren. I’ve made it a point to avoid her like the blonde banana sandwich crazy Irish nutjob plague. This is especially true when there’s family around. She’s like a virus. Sure, at first she’s harmless enough; being all cute and hot and funny. Then, next thing you know she’s hanging from your gutters wearing a bicycle helmet screaming the lyrics to Rollins Band‘s “Liar.”
Yet, somehow her version is a lot more disturbing.
I was too late to prevent Gene’s lethal dose of Ren radiation. I can only liken it to the Chernobyl disaster, except instead of a reactor meltdown, it’s a batshit crazy blonde’s goofy ass radiation poisoning. There is no known defense against this. Lead, concrete, the English, none of them can protect you from the damaging radiation particles of the little elf. Even a small dosage is life threatening. The longer you’re exposed the more lethal the dose. Instead of skin lesions, internal organ liquefaction, and constantly shitting yourself you are hit with blind devotion, catering to her every need, and.. constantly shitting yourself.
Ignoring ever primitive instinct for survival, my brother came down with a mortal dose of Ren sickness. He was beyond the point of no return. He was a goner. The patient exhibited symptoms such as: calling her every night, taking her out for dinner, a shit-eating grin and thousand yard stare every time some one mentioned Ren’s name. He was dying before my very eyes!
It’s one thing if Gene wanted to kill himself with drunken Mick poison. It’s another thing to expose your entire family to it. It’s pretty much a Typhoid Mary scenario. Why keep the disease to yourself when you can share it with EVERYONE? If we use the radiation poisoning example from above, it’s like bringing a white-hot piece of reactor core to a family reunion, then using it to hold the napkins down. Fuck man, might as well just killed our family outright.
Then, as the little Irish psychopath mentions here, they went to Las Vegas and got hitched. That’s like just letting the icy waters of the Bearing Sea suck you in. No resistance. No will to go on. Nope, just one big, “fuck it” before you drown and end up passing through some fish’s colon.
OK, fine. He married this midget on crack. He wants to flush you life down the crapper, feel free. So he’s shown a complete disregard for our family by bringing that blonde pile of crazy home. Great. So now she is officially and lawfully related to me. What the fuck ever. I’ve been married for over a decade. I’m already dead inside.
In the end, I’ll have the last laugh. His carefree days are over. He’s done. Remember when you were confident, Gene? Your smug ass self- assuredness and wonder-machismo is coming to an end. Want to hear why?
Congratulations! You are married to a hottie! Does that sound like a compliment? It’s not thumper-dumper. That whole glow of happiness and pride will eventually give way to a constant storm of paranoia. It’s not easy being married to some fine eye candy. Trust me, brother, I know. My wife is smoking hot. Gorgeous! Humpalicious!
It’s pretty easy to see the upside of being married to a sexy woman: class reunion envy, getting out of speeding tickets, and never having to wait in line. But, no one talks about the downside. The tragic, soul-crushing downside. Since I am the best big brother in known history, I’ll hip you to a few “unadvertised” side effects of being married to a top shelf honey. Get a pad of paper and a pen. You’ll want to take some notes.
1. Next to her, you will ALWAYS look like a retarded ogre.
I’m not talking Shrek, either. That green sonnabitch doesn’t count. That’s just Disney bullshit. This is more like the dude from Mask.
No matter what you do, what duds you don, or how buff you get your hot wife will forever outshine you. Don’t think this is a problem? Wait until you fade away from the visual spectrum of everyone on the planet. It’s only a matter of time before you’re mistaken for the help.
2. You will have to play goalie in public
What’s that mean? Think about it; stunning sexy wife and a husband with a permanent look of “what the fuck?” on his face. Every sweaty ball sack with a case of wood will surround your wife like jackals in the wild.
Hormone filled college frat boys will endlessly eye-hump your wife. Every now and again, one will try to be smooth and hit on her when you’re taking a piss or shaking down a midget for some cash. “Wedding ring? Come on, baby. It’s the new millennium. I’ve seen some Grey’s Anatomy. I know how it goes down.”
This is when you pick up the stick and start blocking slap shot after slap shot of douchbaggery. Eye-humping? That’s a check, motherfucker. Smiling at her? That’s a stick to the gut. Get handsy with her and that’s an all out fucking throw down on the ice!
*Note: Don’t send me emails telling me this is a trust issue. “If I could trust my wife not to bend over in the men’s room this wouldn’t be a problem.” Eat a dick. This has nothing to do with trust. I trust my wife implicitly. I’m still not going to leave her in a sea of sperminators while I take a jaunty stroll.
3. Paranoia: Fearing that she may, one day, realise she’s way out of your league
Those of us married to hot looking dames know that we’re hanging on by a thread. One day, your beautiful bride will realise that a fine piece of ass, like her, and a Mongoloid that can barely work a touch-tone doesn’t work on paper. Maybe it’s because you have a tendency to get rip-roaring drunk and punch your waiter in the throat? Possibly, it’s due to you coming home with one shoe and half your head shaved… again. It may even be the constant explanations she needs to give to her friends for any of the stupid shit you do. It’s all going to contribute to her moment of clarity.
How do you hold onto a woman like that? What can a man do to prevent his fine mama from putting two and two together and posing for Playboy (oops, too late for Gene) and upgrading to George Clooney-grade leading men?
PS: I, Roode, fully acknowledge that all the Roode men have married up. There! Are you happy now?
*Disclaimer: FWTC does not advocate the drugging and/or stringing out your hot ass wife to prevent her from seeing your glaring stupidity and James Carville looks. But, do what you want. We don’t give a shit, you sick fuck.
Yeah, that’s right. Read that title again. It’s for fucking real, baby. I is a married chick, now. I have joined the ranks of domestic married women, everywhere. I am one with all the Suzy Homemakers the world over! Yeah! Betty Crocker and some shit.
Alright, we all know I’m not the poster chick for domesticity. When other little girls were planning their fairy tale weddings, I was drawing up plans to free Northern Ireland through a complex, yet sexy series of events. I never really gave two shits if I ever got married. Never wanted to, never cared, didn’t need the bullshit. Some girls go through, “this is the one” syndrome with every guy they date. Mine was more, “this is the one for now.” No, that’s not a polite way of saying I was a super horny sorority vixen. Fuck, it totally is.
Fuck it, whatever. Who are you to judge me? Damn it, stop being an asshole! Son-of-a-whore!
OK, sorry. I’m better now.
So, I’ve been seeing this guy for a good while. He’s manly, hot, and hung (too much info?). It started out as a semi-regular booty call situation. I say “semi-regular,” because it started off as a long distance relationship. He lived/lives in central Alberta and I live on the ass-end of humanity in Western Montana. That’s a good ten hours apart. But, Momma has a way of becoming a life crippling addiction to men, women, and a few transsexuals. It may not be a record, but the Canuck would drive the ten hours every time I flashed the booty call signal.
The Ren addiction became overwhelming. The hoser fell for me. That’s not anything new. I can’t go a day without someone writing a marriage proposal in the sky via old-timey skywriting plane.
What I didn’t count on and never really had to deal with was the addiction going both ways. This is some sappy shit. I apologize for being all lovey-dubby. It’s out of character for me, I know. Deal with it. I’ll go back to the normal sexist, self absorbed sex kitten you all have come to know and love with your very being.
I figured that after my long life on this planet, I might as well settle for this dumbass. He’s already demonstrated his complete and baffling devotion to me. Who hasn’t? But, as I mentioned, I sorta kiiiinda liked this guy in more than just my pants. Yeah, it’s the L word.
The OTHER L word. Momma fell in love. Fuck you! Why not? Why can’t it happen to me, too? Judgmental prick.
After some deep soul-searching, we decided to get hitched. The reason being.. I don’t have to justify our decision. Doode, I’m going to come through your computer and bitch slap you.
We planned to spend a portion of my spring break in Las Vegas for a super-dooper romantic trip. Hey! Vegas! Home of the drive through wedding. No hassle, no complications, no fuss. Just the two of us, a couple of witnesses, and an official that may or may not be an Elvis impersonator.
We were sold. What’s the point in waiting? No, there is no point. Momma knows what she wants. If she didn’t want it, it wouldn’t happen. I was determined. He was ecstatic for the privilege and honor of marrying me.
Bing, bam, boom; we had our suite at the Luxor reserved, the 20 minutes at the chapel reserved, and a whole assortment of wedding night lingerie to make him praise God for the blessing of being in my life. No wedding dress, tux, or reception. Simple, baby. Expressing our love by making the ultimate commitment in the eyes of our Irish Lord, Jesus O’Nazereth. We know full well that, being both Catholic [IRISH Catholic for me], death is the only way out after the deed is done.
Knowing that this was the only thing that a couple can do in Vegas that will not stay in Vegas, we figured it was a good idea to keep all of this a secret. Why? Well, we didn’t want to put up with a bunch of bullshit from family, friends, my army of devoted followers, etc. I say “bullshit,” to encompass all the possible reactions one can expect when proclaiming a quickie marriage in Vegas. That’s something you want to do after the fact.
The whole thing was set in motion. We were giddy, knowing the big secret. Don’t get me wrong, no one was going to start a war or disapprove vehemently of our union. Well, one person would. But, more on that fucker later. I wanted to do this on our own terms. I guess that’s some of the reason we felt drunk the entire time. That and, well, actually being drunk. But, at least half of that feeling was the complete control of our destinies. We had some awesome pre-wedding ceremony sex. I mean, awesome. Fuck… earth shattering super banging. I think it was the worst kept secret in the entire hotel.
We went to the hotel chapel, had a short run down of what was going to happen, added the cost to our hotel bill, then pulled the trigger. It was easier than getting a gun permit in California. We were Mr and Mrs Whatsits. That intoxicating feeling we had before our wedding just EXPLODED to the nth degree. The Luxor comped a dinner and $100 worth of gambling chips. That’s it. It was awesome. We had rings and just glowed with excitement. Oh yeah, we fucked each other stupid in private and public places.
It may not have been a traditional wedding, but it was OUR wedding set at our speed. We partied everywhere! We took in some burlesque shows, some dirty version of Little Bo Peep with Holly Madison, a topless comedy club, some gambling, and then more things that involved women without tops. It was a recurring theme on our trip.
Before I go any further, I feel the need to debunk any unauthorized rumors floating around. I know “Ren got married,” means different things to different people. This is rumor control; here are the facts:
- I am not pregnant
- He is not pregnant
- We were NOT drunk during the ceremony
- This isn’t part of a Witness Protection Program deal
- I AM NOT PREGNANT. Drop it. Fuck!
I think that may have crashed Facebook for a few hours. The amount of cell phone and internet traffic coming from Edmonton, Montana, Idaho, Washington, and Northern Ireland was enough to completely jam up the works, A´ la major terrorist or natural disaster. When you get a bunch of Irish Catholics who have been duped into not participating or attending a wedding of one of their own; it’s war.
We enjoyed our remaining few days off the grid. That is, until my mother informed us that she took it upon herself to book a flight from Las Vegas to Spokane, the nearest grown up airport Northern Idahoans have. I pointed out to her that we didn’t have a car. We planned on flying right back home and get my ride from the airport lot. No worries. Once we land in Spokane, there would be “a car” waiting for us. OK, fine. I owe my family a little leeway here. They want to meet my new husband; their new kin. The husband, on the other hand, smelled a set up.
The Husband, some how, must have heard stories about my family that didn’t put us in a very peaceful and understanding light. Every family has their history. Some were involved in bootlegging during Prohibition. Some were involved with assembling explosives and blowing up columns of British trucks. So maybe there are still some out there fighting for the Cause.* Of course, it may have something to do with some of my family being members of a fairly known MC in those parts. I grew up with bikers. That explains my charm and precociousness.
*Editor’s Note: No one in 21st century Northern Ireland can pinpoint what “The Cause” means. There are a dozen or so out there. Take your pick. Find one that feels good to you! Don’t like it? Trade it in for a brand new cause!
The entire flight, The Husband was preoccupied with facing his own death a lot sooner than he hoped. Getting our bags at Spokane, we meandered to the ground transportation area. A large man in a black suit held a placard with our names written in flowing fashion. OK, so maybe a scene or two from “The Transporter” popped into my head.
We got into this black town car that drove us all the way to my parents’ house. I spent the 45 minutes assuring him that he was creating a scenario in his head that couldn’t possibly play true in real life. [note: I was completely fucking wrong] I was excited! I’m a newly wed and so pumped to show off The Husband, our rings, and share all the stories. The house was coming in sight. I guess my smiling and giddiness was a little infectious. The Husband, for a moment, had forgotten to be scared. Not to worry. That wouldn’t last.
Our car made the last bend and my parents’ home came into view! Wow, there sure are a lot more cars in the driveway than I thought would be in the middle of a weekday… in the middle of the week. Well fuck me running, there’re like a dozen motorcycles hanging around the driveway, too. Oh, it’s a welcome to the family party! We got out of the car and made our way to the front porch to find twelve angry-looking men in MC kutten with club colors standing on the porch like it was a parade review. Among these big, angry cowboys of the road were two of my cousins, Reece and Aodh. I knew The Husband’s train from funtown was now heading for Ass Beating Butte.
Nothing was said. They grabbed Husband and threw him in a van, then took off like the wind. A wind that just kidnapped my brand new husband. None of us would see him for a good 24 hours. But, whatever. My Da was grilling steak and had an open bottle of whisky for his little girl. I’m sure The Husband was fine.
Oh, come on! Stop thinking the worst. He didn’t die. They just pushed him off a bridge. Come to think of it, that is something a guy just has to go through in order to prove his worth. It wasn’t anything too illegal. A long time was spent berating him and pissing all over his manhood. Figuratively. No one was actually pissing on his dick. That’s just fucked up.
*Note from photo research staff: There are just some illustrations we refuse to find.
They tied his foot to a cinder block and asked him if he could fly. Their theory was, that if Husband really loves me, he wouldn’t be afraid to take a leap of faith. Then, without an answer, they pushed him off. Aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrgggggghhh! Splat.
No. There wasn’t a “splat.” With all the commotion, Husband didn’t realize that the brothers hooked him up to a bungee dealy and not a cinder block. He bounced back. His jeans may have been a little more urine soaked than normal, and I am damn sure the boxers he had on had to be burned. They returned him the next day, drunk, sweaty, and dry heaving. Back off, ladies. He’s MY MAN!
That’s sort of how it went over the next several weeks. My mother is very adamant that we have a Catholic ceremony to “strengthen our … something or other.” Something about getting officially married in the eyes of the Church. Now, that will be fun to coordinate. Good luck to them figuring out how to get two families 1000 miles apart to come to a consensus on something like this. Oh well, don’t care. Just more alcohol and meat products for me. I did manage to spend a good week or so with The Husband’s family in Edmonton. As expected, they fucking love me. I’m so charming. Tee hee. Even one of his older brothers was completely enamored by me. I fucking ROCK Alberta!
Oh, that guy I mentioned earlier in the article that would lose his shit when he found out Husband and I got married. It’s the middle child of the family. He is known by many names; newfie, tool, anger-man, the tirade king… But, we here at FWTC call him Roode. That’s right bitches. I married into Roode’s family. Try to stop me now, motherfucker! Your nightmare is now a reality! I’m on the inside, entrenched. There is no way to escape me. Roode, my big brother-in-law, life as you know it has ended. Enjoy!
You would be surprised how often an artist had to try before he came up with his masterpiece. Michelangelo had to carve countless dongs out of marble to get “David” just right. I don’t know what he did with all the extras, but I’m pretty sure I have a guess.
This is also true with FWTC. As Tresckow pointed out here, many an idea for an article is shit canned, dies on the table, or sits in the queue until someone takes responsibility for it. It’s not that all of these ideas suck (well, none of mine). It’s just that, sometimes, we can’t make them work. Even if we can, something comes along to ball- tag us into submission. The server could shit its pants just before we hit “save.” One of our computers will lock up and give us the finger. Some dipshit (Tresckow) could click the wrong button and end up using a later version of the write-up and derail the train. In any case, it happens to me, sometimes. This instance isn’t because the subject sucked or that I couldn’t make it work. It’s more like it was killed with an over abundance of laziness and cyber-bullshit clusterfuck.
Towards the end of 2010, Facebook’s Friend Finder bullshit was on everyone’s monitor. It would outright lie and do its best to con your dumb ass into signing up for their thinly veiled market research campaign. It pissed me off. I know, it’s hard to imagine. But, I shit you not, it sent me on more than one curse filled rant. So, I figured I’d write an article about it. Why not? If Ren can pull a bit about ConAir out of her ass, I surely can spin hate-fueled gold.
At this point, I’ve got a pretty good handle on things. I’m raring to go and stayed up all night looking for new ways to say, “dick bag.”
I remember when I never used Facebook. Those were wonderful times. I’m naturally pretty adverse to most technology; smart phones, navigation systems, online social media, shoes… Look, the point is that I like life to be simple.
Here, I proudly admit to my complete monkey-dumbassary as far as technology goes. As with most pieces on comedy websites, a well-trained author will throw in a little self-deprecating humour in an effort to pretend he’s on the same level as the readers. That’s not true. In actuality, the author is on a completely different plane of existence; too advanced to be understood by simple mortals and their love for ass-chapping reality television shows.
It took many a round of convincing by the wife that Facebook was a good tool to keep in touch with family and friends. You know, the fuckers I try to stay away from. But, as usual, I caved. Yeah, I’m a complete sucker for my wife. From angrily watching Glee with her to removing the frozen pizza from the box BEFORE I put it in the oven.
Yes, another jab at my baffling incompetence with being a functioning part of society. Please note that I have, once again, put my wife on a pedestal, calling notice to her ability to both deal with my shit and walk through life doing every-ever-fucking-loving thing perfectly. That, and I figured it’s a pretty good half-assed attempt in getting laid. You know, build her up while making myself look like a stooge. In case you’re wondering, it didn’t work.
I signed up for FB, after answering a thousand shit eating questions. Sure, I could have just opened an account and left it at that. But, FB doesn’t play that game. It mocks you every time you sign on. “Hey! Your profile is empty!” “Why not add some interests? Everybody else is doing it!” Even if I can manage to avoid that social networking bastard’s taunts, fucker goes ahead and tells the world that I’m a slack ass.
Now, I still have a pretty tight grasp on where this article is going. Remember, 1. I hate technology, 2. I hate Glee, 3. Facebook is a bag of dicks.
After I waded through all that touchy-feely bullshit I Ronco-ed that bad boy; set it and forget it. One of the reasons I chose FB (other than my wife’s mysterious, yet sexy power over me) is that it didn’t have as many of those annoying aps as MySpace. As soon as I got somewhat comfortable with my virtual existence I was hit by a shit storm of game invites, survey results, and constant advertisements calling me by name.
Yeah, another compliment to the wife. Look, I need all the help I can get. I tend to get banished to the couch a lot. But, my point is clear. Facebook exploits a human’s basic need to play online games that aren’t worth two shits in Wyoming.
Oh, Adel questioned the reference to Ronco; saying no one born after 1978 was going to get it. As with everything else I’ve written, my philosophy is “Fuck you.”
Fuck it. It’s not 100% intrusive. These fucktarded ads are just in the left column. There are ways to ignore bullshit Mob Wars and Whose-it-fuckis FarmVille/town/empire/concentration camp. Wait. FarmVille Concentration Camp may be something I’d get into. Build your barbed wire fences little by little. Earn enough funds from the government to hire all the guards you need. And bullets… lots and lots of bullets.
I’m particularly proud of this section. “FarmVille Concentration Camp” is the best idea in the history of social networking. Someone get on this NOW! I once hammered out a complete schematic of how this game would work. I had to draw it in pencil, because as you can tell, I suck royal ass at photoshop. Once completed, I showed it around to a few friends for their take on it- you know; railway stations, mines, labour groups, random executions… No one really said anything. I just got a call from Amnesty International.
Then, that’s it. It went off the rails. No, my writing didn’t spiral down into a pit of hellishness not seen since Ugly Betty. I banged out another page or two of ball-grabbing hilarity. But, oh no. Life gladly took my efforts on top of Mount Son-of-a-bitch and threw them over the side.
My computer and the FWTC server decided to have a pissing contest. It didn’t matter who won, because I lost. FireFox told me that my session lasted a little too long, so it had to shut it down. So what? The FWTC server generously supplied by wordpress updates and saves every few minutes. I may lose that last joke about vagina hockey, but I can add it once I reopen the file. See? Easy!
Firefox decided it was imperative that I leave the website’s dashboard IMMEDIATELY! Something got its panties in a bunch and it wanted to shut the whole fucking system down. Alright. Fine. I’ll just click “save” on the dashboard and Bob’s your uncle. Wait a second…
What in fuck’s name just happened? the WordPress dashboard won’t let me save my work. In fact, it’s just staring at me like a retarded kid during a school bus ride. I click “Save” once. I click it twice; the little bastard just stands there. The “Save” button doesn’t give a shit about me or my needs. I can’t go forward, because Firefox won’t let me. I can’t reason with the dashboard, because it, flat-out, wants to see me in a rage that will take the house and half the block with it. Hmmm. The back arrow isn’t all grayed out. It’s my only choice, I guess. Otherwise, I’m going to be sitting in front of this fucking computer forever.
So, as I usually say when cars, computers, alcohol, and kids are concerned, Fuck It! The back arrow is my friend. It has to be. I just lost a day’s work here. Something has to still be hanging around on one of the previous windows. Right?
FUCK! That sure as hell didn’t work! It skipped a few dozen pages and took my ass to a page visit from two days ago? Why? Who’s fucking with me? One of the greatest masterpieces of all times is getting shit-canned because, the cyber-world is being a little bitch. All I wanted to do is complete this article, get it copy edited, then click “send.” BAM! Off to the next.
Well, when there’s hope, there’s someone to kick you in the head with an iron boot! I backtracked all the previous versions of my article. WordPress makes it relatively easy to compare and contrast versions just in case you want to include that line about that fat lady being arrested for causing a ruckus (to all you motherfuckas- sorry, I was channeling Busta Rhymes for a second) on that quiet car on that Amtrak train going from Oakland, CA to Salem, OR. I can’t quite remember if I called her a “douche bag with a phone attached” or “illiterate, obnoxious fat ass.” So, I go back into my archives (or versions as WordPress calls them) and check the older saved versions. That would have worked on any other day. Today is not any other-fucking day.
The most recent version that was saved was waaaaay back when I first started the article. It had a title and the by-line. That’s it. I was miffed. Maybe, a tad upset. Fine! I threw my keyboard out the window.
But, I couldn’t let my loyal fans (fan?) down! I diligently pieced together the article, calling upon my photographic memory to fit the puzzle together. After a couple of hours I was stoked. Screw the last version of the article! This one is IT! THIS ONE! It’s funnier, more offensive, and more ROODE than all the other versions combined. I AM ALL THAT IS MAN!
I hit “save” and sent a message to Tresckow that my future Nobel Prize worthy article was ready for copy editing. Now all I had to do was sit back and wait for the final product; a few funny pics here and there, some grammar correction, maybe a new variation on the term “ball sack…” That’s right, Jack. I was sitting pretty.
Somehow, some way Tresckow managed to fuck it up. Who the hell knows what happened? He hit the wrong key? Spilled whiskey on the keyboard? Called the server a reach-arounder? In any event, once again, my article was thoroughly punched in the taint. Half of it disappeared like in a bad Chris Angel sketch (sort of redundant). What I was left with was the original half of the article I lost a day before. Whether I was sabotaged, because of jealousy of my AWESOME writing skills or the server really wanted to dick me over; one thing was very clear:
Everywhere I look I see mothers whoring their children around. Well, not literally or this would be a different article, entirely. I’m referring to the estrogenical pushers who talk and/or barrage you with photo after photo of their kids until the victim’s head explodes. It was easy enough, ten years ago, to feign a heart attack or flat-out run away. However, technology has changed that. You can’t get away. Perhaps, the medium that gives turbo moms the largest outlet to assault everyone with a never-ending snow storm of play by-play toddler action is Facebook.
I’ve never been one to show my kid off to the point of being obnoxious. In fact, most people are surprised I have one in the first place. No evidence really exists outside my home. I’m a private person. Also, I don’t want to be a dickweed. For years I’ve had to endure the endless stories of people’s children and grand-children. Everything from their first dump to the cute thing they did with a blender and duct tape. I don’t bloody care! Stop it! It’s one thing to be proud of your offspring. It’s quite another to be an outright wanker about it.
Some parents will take offense to this. Frankly, I don’t give a shit. FWTC covered the Top 4 Most Self Important Facebook Status Messages, last year. It’s my duty to elaborate further. As a mother, I refuse to immerse myself in my children. NO! I am an individual! I will practically hide the fact that I have kids, just like my mother before me. That’s how real parents do it. So, I pledge:
1. Not use my child’s photo as my profile pic.
Sure, every parent has the right to show off the little person that was ejected from their loins. But, all too often, I’ve seen many a mom exclusively use their kid’s photo as their own. What is this supposed to accomplish? Every bloody time I see an update or get a wall post from you I get to see the face of your Mongoloid child. What if my womb was more barren than Wyoming? Do you think your constant reminder that you have a damn child is doing me much good? Do you care? The line between mother and child must be drawn. You’ve had the kid already. Move on. The novelty wears off in a few days when you realize the little crying poop machine isn’t going to leave.
2. Not to use my child’s ultrasound as my profile pic.
OK, knock it off. What in the bloody blue fuck are you trying to prove here? What are we looking at? A storm approaching Florida? The face of Christ appearing on a blackboard? The radar scan of a ballistic nuclear submarine? Oh, it’s your uterus.
I’m expecting another mouth to feed by the end of this year. As SOP, I regularly visit the doctor who pretends to only look at my cooter strictly in a professional manner (he’s not fooling me). I refused to take a copy of the ultrasound home with me. My children are going to have enough awkward photographs taken in middle and high school. We don’t need to start that awkward phase pre-birth. What am I really going to do with an ultrasound, anyway? The last thing I need my kid to find is a picture of herself as a fetus next to her university graduation photo.
Look at it this way, your child is naked in your womb. So, in a way, you are the purveyor of fetal child porn. Are you proud of yourself, you pervert?
3. Post a detailed child play-by-play.
My kid does some cute things. I have no doubt that the next one will, as well. Of course, my genes are prone to building intelligent, perfect human specimens. Whenever my son does something truly momentous (first steps, honor roll, first successful oppression of Northern Ireland) I will damn well mention it on my Facebook page. MENTION. Not type out a soliloquy.
But, there are some out there in cyber-land that post updates on EVERY GOD DAMNED MUNDANE ACTION their child does. Why? Are we better off knowing your son just ate a fistful of dirt? I won’t sleep better now that I know your baby took a shit on the dog. Oh, looky! Your toddler just discovered the joys of sticking grubs up his nose!
4. Whine about my motherly plight
Anyone who tells you that caring for and raising children is the most precious gift the good Lord has given humanity is an outright lying bastard. Either this dumbass is childless and spouting philosophy he knows nothing about or s/he has children, but have “people” to care for them ala Paris and Nicky Hilton.
I’ll do you one better. Raising children can be one of the most rewarding experiences of your life. It very well could be something you look back on as your finest achievement. Your son is the governor of Idaho and has managed to balance the budget. Your daughter is world renown as the best thing that has ever hit the theatre for centuries. All the work you put into molding your brainless lumps of mashed potatoes paid off!
Well, there’s another side to this coin. You’re kid is an asshole, 43, and still living with mom and dad. He’s always sooo close to landing that job at Jack in the Box once he masters the grueling fast food entrance exam. His on again, off again girlfriend goes by the name Tanga Ray and the kids she’s toting around… well there’s a 50/50 chance some of them share a link on the genetic level with his family unit. That’s right mom and dad, enjoy your bastard grandchild! We’re not sure which one it is, so pick the one that you like the most. We’ll have him go through a 212 point safety inspection and hose him off. Enjoy this kid. Choose wisely. Chances are Grandma and Grandpa, you are going to end up raising that kid yourself while your son is in jail, the hospital, or just drops off the radar. Suckers.
Regardless of what little Toddy chose to shove in the furnace or that baby Tiki found your check book and thought it would make one fine ticker tape parade, we all have to endure weird shit like this. No parent gets to sleep regularly for the first 3 years of the child’s life. It’s not my rule, it’s an official federal one. We know you’re tired. Writing bitchy FB posts about it every 20 minutes isn’t going to help. It quickly tires out the innocent friends on your page and some of them may want to do you bodily harm for what they consider emotional torture. Whining that little Danny keeps throwing your keys into the toilet won’t get them out any faster. You better get those before little Danny figures out how to flush.