Facebook People

I remain undecided on the current state of social networking.  Once, when I was between jobs, I built a facebook page, and yes it was rather amusing for a few months.  A different blast from the past would hit the old inbox about every other day.  I made the all so common mistake of conversing with  an old girlfriend or two.  My wife quickly informed me how pathetic and inappropriate that idea was.  Old friends are important.  Old aquaintances are not, and most should remain deeply rooted in the past.  But hey, if a bad choice shows back up, you can always drop them back into the unknown by cutting them from your list of accepted contacts.  I wish that were possible in everyday life.  I don't like you and I never want to see, smell, hear, or even consider your mere existence again (Click).  Aaaaaaah, that's better.
In short, there are pros and cons to the whole set up.  My wonder lies with those that spend half of their day posting pictures, discussing shit that happened in 1983, posting everyday  BS that doesn't matter, and generally assuming that everyone gives a flying monkey turd about their every move.  As a point of reference, here are a few recent post from my "friends" :
1. Going to the store, I need butter and some Salem lights.
2. Loving life at the beach, I am having some great seafood. (post picture of their plate)
3. I'm Smiling
4. Went to the doctor for stomach problems, I still don't know what's wrong.
5. Go Dawgs (there is no UGA team competing at any level on June the 9th)   Maybe tennis or golf, but trust me, this post came from a person that could not put together another organized thought.

What the hell is going on?  Are you lonely?   Is this some type of exhibition fetish.  Do you want someone knowing every detail of your day?  Because look here, we don't give a damn about who won the little league game, or how much you enjoyed your last bowel movement.  If you want to sit and post, fine, but, give us something worth reading.  Tell us something about yourself that noone would know.  Better yet, throw a little fiction on top of the story.  Spice it up.  Tell us who you screwed last night and how you hid it from your husband.  These are things that are not important, but they do carry a little entertainment value.  I enjoy communicating and creating, however, I would never just go online to let everyone know what I am cooking for supper. 

I know the lack of personal presence results in feelings of confidence ,when communicating with others online.  I have one word of advice.  Use that confidence.  Say some shit that you would never say over the dinner table.  Make it fun, not weird.  Those of you who are guilty of posting worthless info know who you are.  Please be aware that all of your friends are talking behind your back.  We all think you have deep rooted mental problems and should seek professional help.  Please, quit.  It makes everyone feel awkward and uncomfortable.

P.S.  I am currently feeding the dog.  He is a very good boy.

Bad Neighbors

We have all had them.  You know the kind.  They are always bitching and complaining about something.  The noise is to loud.  The car is on my grass.  Your leaves are blowing in my yard.  Your dog shit, and I can smell it in my living room.  That's right, I am speaking of the ever present "bad Neighbor".  There are a few common denominators that apply to these individuals.  Mine meets most if not all of the needed criteria.  She is old, lonely, prone to drink, and a widow.  I heard her husband died (I can only assume by his own hand) about 5 years ago.  She like many before her has dedicated her existence to spreading bitterness around our planet.  For rhetorical purposes, I will refer to her as Medusa.  Down south, people with proper raisin' avoid screaming and yelling in the street.  Instead we lob innuendos across the street while leaning on the business end of a rake and sipping a beer.  From a distance one would think we were being cordial.  Nothing could be farther from the truth. Just recently, I had my scheduled spring run in with Medusa.  It always involves a particular plant at the corner of my yard.  It is one of those grassy cat tails that requires either the home owner or a contracted Latin agency to perform a day of trimming.  Unfortunately, a few of the trimmings inevitability  blow into Medusa's yard.  Today, she came out of the door with her nose in the air.  She was sniffing the wind like a wolf trying to locate his prey.  She must of gotten a whiff of my Jovan Sex Appeal cologne.  Her demeanor changed immediately; she knew I had been in the yard.  Then, she saw the plant.  It had been neatly trimmed.  She began pacing her yard looking for evidence that would justify her planned attack.  I watched from my window as Medusa stormed across the street with one long blade of Pompous Grass in her hand.  For a brief moment, I thought she may have been recognizing Palm Sunday in her own psychotic way.  I was wrong.  I immediate abandoned my inherited social restraint and met her half way.  She is originally from up north, and despite her extended stay, she still maintains her Yankee accent.  I on the other hand am a true son of the south and find both solace and pride in my "Suthan' Drawl."  We face off like Grant and Lee, but this day would not end with another Northern victory.  This would be my Fredericksburg.  My bayonet was fixed and I met the enemy head on.  I called her a lonely old drunk.  I recommended that she take her Ass back across the street, where she belonged.  I sympathized openly with her dead husband and reminded her that her bastard children never darkened her door.  I informed her that the members of the neighborhood association referred to her as the "Village Idiot".  It was brutal.  After the dust and pollen cleared, she had retreated back to her dreary home.  Her pride and arrogance had been purged.  The proverbial hat was in her hand.  I am sipping a beer at this very moment and watching out of my window as Medusa stealthy places a letter in my mail box.  No, it is not what you think.  Remember, we are in the south.  I am confident that it is a brief letter of apology, written on stationary that was acquired while visiting the Master's golf tournament in 1989.  I have received several in the past.  We will return to our cordial daily head nods as we pass on the street, but the war is not over.  Another storm is approaching.  I can almost smell the rain. Ready the horses !!!