| | In your face, office bloggers! I hope you get fired. I hope you get fired and it leads you into a horribly uncomfortable financial position that ends with your spouse leaving you for someone with more cash-saturated genitals, selling your only child into slavery on some Arab sex barge in Wherethefuckistan, and you ending up losing a couple of fingers in a crippling back-alley handjob accident surrounding a complicated story involving blackjack and Elliot Smith's ugly little talentless corpse.
Shitty musician necrophilia, we hardly knew ye.
Anyway.
I was staring at the ads on the side of a Xanga these days, wondering just what the fuck conclusion about someone's personality had to come up with that sadistic synthesis of marketing. I mean, maybe sexy black singles, Amy Winehouse, and medical school entrance exams were meant to be packaged together, but not in the reality that I'm from. Which, I'll admit, I've noted the rest of the internet doesn't seem to share, since whenever I click on those ads they want my credit card. They're like those women from the phone who never give just give me directions. All I want is directions, I don't care what you're wearing. Maybe I'm dialing the wrong number. Directory assistance shouldn't be 900 numbers, should they.
But back to my main point; I wonder just what devious, mechanical spider-mainframe deep within the earth is filtering through everything I click to provide the personalized ads I see on my sites. I understand this is the age of digital overseeing; every site I click on is registered to some private observation server where it flies right into the hands of the Department Of Internet Defense or whatever stupid watchdog group there is out there now, before it's plucked nimbly from them by the spider-mainframe, who in the effort to help itself survive this economic storm, sells it to a marketing engine living somewhere five miles deeper. It's okay with me. Giant compound eyes attached to every one and zero pertaining to me are zooming around this vast and terrible internet. I know. I waste an hour looking up remixes of the Beast Wars theme on Youtube, and thusly I've also wasted an hour of surveillance under the great eye of Observation God. Yes, I'm fucking around in the ant farm, take that you omniscient pricks. I know you're scrutinizing everything I watch! I feel bad for the real-time agent who has to see me dick around the internet, because it means he's being subjected to a lot of shitty blogs. Unless he's into that sort of thing...the kind of twit who thinks Scrubs is hilarious and looks forward to every 4chan-related demotivational poster his supervisor forwards him.
It'd be more terrifying if I let it. When I buy some DVDs off Amazon, they know what, and they know how long I spent browsing around for a better deal and some whirring electrical monstrosity inside the laptop goes "ping" and snickers among it's own kind about how I could used a better shipping plan. A red blinking light goes off every day when I wake up and flick open my phone to check for drunken texts. My texts are read and analyzed for terrorist threats, subversive intelligence, and marketing strategies. I know! I don't need paranoid pseudo-anarchists on street corners telling me this, like I'm supposed to be acting like such news is an unending source of astonishment and rage-inducing surprise. I get it, you blatant zero. I am a fucking zoo animal beaten down and fed crap staring at passerby from the cage. I got it. Voyeuristic infinite regress, so to speak. It's not what grinds my gears.
What gets me up is the mild and continuing fear of error. Not that the probability matrix attached to Vaccerelli, D will eventually lead to some nightmarish Big Brother preconception of me being some childish, ranting pervert as they watch me randomize my way around blogs, but that some one is going to get kicked into some zero while attached to another subfile, and suddenly I'm going to be sitting in my room when an automated voice coming out of nowhere informs me I'm an abhorrent personality and need to be removed from the psychological and economic collective because of my incorrect socialization and buying procedures. And then it turns into that opening scene from Brazil all over again.
The hell with a fucking boot stomping a human face forever, it's all about the compulsive fear of the great spider-mainframe within the earth taking a shit and me getting arrested for suspicion of buying the wrong DVD set for my registered buyer's psych profile. It turns out they just cross-logged me with my cousin, Vaccerelli, R. Meanwhile he gets a credit rating boost and the full Criterion Noir series. Then the next morning I wake up in a cell and three automated rifles "rehabilitate" my decisions.
And then then the blinking red light goes off. |
| | Posted 10/6/2008 9:45 PM - 745 Views - 108 eProps - 69 comments
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