I’m tired of the fucking internet. I don’t know how people can possibly be on the internet all day like we are. But we are, many of us anyway, or we’re on there too much at least. And why? Because life as we know it is so damn boring, I guess. So we look for our fix of instant entertainment, our weather, sports, financial information, news, gossip, smartassery, music, video, and, most importantly, porn. Gotta have our porn. And the damn games, of course.
I really have no problem with people spending all their time on here–like the subject of what inspires them to masturbate, it’s their business, not mine. And my business, not theirs. Adult brunette human females, by the way. Always wondered–are black-haired women considered brunettes also? Because I include them; otherwise what are you going to call them–“blackies,” in the manner of “blondes” or “blondies?” Now there’s a can of worms that I’m going to leave in the back of the cupboard behind the 12 cans of cream of mushroom soup that I discovered the other day. Apparently every time I went to the grocery store for awhile I must have thought there was going to be an upcoming war or natural disaster and I was going to make tater tot hot dish for the entire neigborhood. I don’t even have that many pans. With my parents it was twisty-ties from bread sacks. When I was going through their stuff I found a whole kitchen drawer full of them. I guess they that if a blizzard hit and people desperately needed twisty-ties, they’d be the neighborhood source.
I didn’t come tonight, into your cyberspace bubble, to talk about soup or bread ties; I came here to bitch about the internet, and internet providers, and website developers, and other shit I understand nearly as well as Patrick Star understands quantum physics. It drives me insane, short trip that it is, that my connection to Google takes seconds most of the day, but when I come home for lunch it acts like my old dialup connection. The ads also really drive me crazy. I don’t mind that they are there–I accept them as a tradeoff for not paying a company just to visit its website. So, internet dipshits, please tweak something so that the ads, that you feel you must subject us to, load up, every fucking time, as fast as I can snap my fingers. Why, pray tell, is that so difficult? Just throw ’em at me, let me endure them for however long I have to before I can shitcan them, then get back to Eastern European Stoned Hotties dot com. Actually,
porn loads up I hear that porn loads up rapidly and mostly without “external” ads. But then, I suppose it is it own ad, really. They just want you to pay to see even more of some particular black-haired “bottled brunette,” in leather. Anyway, please find a way so that ads load up faster, so that I don’t have to sit, each and every time, thinking that my connection has gone bad or something, wondering why the YT video or whatnot is so slow this time, then slowly realizing, in my sand home under my rock, that it’s slow because the damn ad is loading so slowly, for some idiotic reason. Apparently they want me to add that company’s products to the list of things NOT to buy.
And let me type, for Christ’s fucking sakes. I could type “Santana Black Magic Woman” ten times in the time it takes youtube to try to throw up suggestions when I start typing “San”. Do they not realize that most people can type fairly rapidly these days? Let us “stutter” with our fingers a little longer before you start making inane suggestions. My favorite: Google. There was a weekend when it seemed like all the freshpressed posts were about Jesus, so I entered “why does wordpress feature so many god bloggers” and got this inane suggestion “Do you mean ‘why does wordpress featured so many god bloggers?'” No, google, as a matter of fact I have met the English language before, and I like it the way it is, and I like to break its rules in my own way, not in whatever way you are breaking it. Whatever you’re smoking, it’s warping your command of the language. I most decidedly also did not want to find out “Did Darby Slick wrote White Rabbit?”; I wanted the answer to what I asked: “did darby slick write white rabbit.” I have been stuck on White Rabbit lately, because, as Grace’s sometimes bitter vocal rival in Jefferson Airplane, Marty Balin, supposedly said, “It’s a masterpiece,” and I remember how disappointed I was finding that one of my all-time heroes, Grace Slick, didn’t write “Somebody to Love”. I assumed then that, since Grace had brought “Somebody” and “White Rabbit” with her from The Great Society band, that her ex-brother-in-law Darby had written that one too. He didn’t, she did, and the other reason I can’t get enough of it lately is that I’m sure it was banned in middle-America back in those black-and-white days of 1967, and I never got to hear it over and over again, like I would have, had it been the big hit it should have been. Supposedly it was about drugs or some shit. I just know that I don’t agree with Hunter S. Thompson–I wouldn’t want someone to throw the radio in my bathtub at the climax of “White Rabbit”. First of all, what are they doing in my bathroom? But, more importantly, I’d like to enjoy it again, so I’d rather, how to say this delicately, come, with the help of some brunette lovely, at the high point of “White Rabbit”, starting with what I consider the high point of the song, when she belts out “Go ask Alice, I think she’ll know,” which is about 5 lines before “Feed Your Head…,” which is widely considered the climax. I just think that the-once-amazing Grace reached the high point of 60’s rock rebellion, embracing of alternate lifestyles, celebration of youthful rejection of the old ways, and woman’s need to be heard, LOUD, dammit!, when she follows “and you’ve just had some kind of mushroom, and your mind is movin’ low,” by ROARING out with “Go ask Alice…, I think she’ll KNOWWWWWWW”, and the rest is just a continuing vocal orgasm till you feed your head.
I digressed again, surprisingly enough. I went off the rails a few weeks ago and put this on facebook,
Since Facebook is so Motherfucking stupid that it thinks where I went to college is any of its fucking business, as far as you know I went to the National University of Mongolia, although I do like its acronym: NUM. Work on more important shit, Zuckerberg, you dumbass, like predicting what we all want to look at, which is none of your goddamn fucking business either. Fuck all nosey internet fuckers. Dumb fucks. I’d throw my computer away if I didn’t like looking up shit. And furthermore, fuck.
Have a nice day.
because I’m so damn sick of them telling me that my profile is 100% complete, but they want to know where I went to high school and college. I think that’s what bugs me even more, that they can’t do math. Maybe my profile is only 99.5% complete without that info? But it starts with them not letting me enter in “Nonyabusiness High” or “GoScrewYourNerdSelfZuckerberg College”. I wrote those inane terms, so they are what I want there. It doesn’t matter to me that they are not valid schools from your database, you Zuckhead.
The worst, though, the absolute gooniest intrusion, weirdest invasion of my privacy, oddest attempt to tailor “my internet experience” to my demographic, my tastes as they see them, my preferences, came from, of all places, the PBS website. Noooo shit; I couldn’t believe it. Paraphrasing here: “Don’t you want to enter your location so that we can show you content from your local PBS station?” No, my fucking God no, in the name of Bruce Jenner’s plastic surgeon, no, in the name of all that is evil or good in the world, FUUUUUUCK no, public TV or radio’s website is the last place in the world I would want “tailored” to my tastes. I don’t pick up a Time magazine in my gastroenterologist’s waiting room (Time magazine is about as thick as the phone book for Bumfuck, Iowa, these days, by the way) to look for a specific type of news story or feature story. I want to encounter whatever I encounter, just like I would when flipping tv channels back when I had cable or satellite, just like I’d roam through a bookstore. I don’t want to have anything tailored to me, ever, especially by an entity that brings us a wild variety of entertainment or information like public television does. I sat and looked at that with my mouth hanging open in dull amazement. Um, fuck you also, PBS net. Just let me decide what to click on. Surprise me, don’t cater to me. If I want to investigate local program schedules, I can figure that out without your help.
God, I’m windy. Fuck the internet, I guess, would be the main theme here.
Back to “White Rabbit”: I hate dull-witted thumping bass from the cars of teenage pukes or adult morons, where you can’t even hear any of the instruments or vocals, just THUMP THUMP THOOMP THUMP on and on. I used to live in trailers where you could hear your neighbors fart, or in basements or wherever, so I kept it low, usually, especially the bass, which can go through walls a half mile away, it seems. Now I can turn my music up, but I still operate from the basis of wanting to not annoy anyone with too much bass, plus I just plain mostly see bass lines as a driving force for the leads in the bands rather than as a feature for the listener, so I usually have the bass turned way down, enjoying the singers and guitars the most. So it was pretty fucking comical when I brought my Surrealistic Pillow CD (no, I don’t own an Ipod or whatever and might never for all I know) into the house from its semi-permanent place in my car’s stereo and tried to listen to it with my in-house setup. Not hearing Jack Casady’s bass line, turned way up, as the intro to the song is pretty pointless. It was really tinny and awful. So for now the bass is slightly above 0 setting rather than at minus 10.
“One website makes you larger and one website makes you small, and the ones that your mother wants you to watch don’t do anything at all”: (sorry Grace)
(There’s feedback and poor quality on this one but, again with the internet moron theme, some music publisher thinks they own the rights to everything everywhere, so fuck them too. The “live” versions that are too close to the album version to not be lip-synched, and the Woodstock version, where they had partied on acid and whatnot all night, are better, but I don’t get to put them here.) Again, fuck the internet.