Facebook: The Slum Lords of Social Media

By Ren

At some point in our lives, we've all lived in a shit hole. Whether in the projects of Boise or the academic ghettos of off campus housing, they all have one thing in common: the people who own it don't give a shit if the toilets flush in reverse or a family of possums set up shop in your underwear drawer. If you don't like it you can leave.

Pay your rent on time or you will be evicted from this paradise.

This is the 21st century (no shit). Slums aren't limited to real life anymore. There is "virtual" everything- virtual dating, virtual marriages, virtual mafia, virtual prostitutes, and even virtual homes. That's right, many of us have a particular place we "live" on the web. MySpace used to be the best neighborhood to hang your hat, but it's degenerated into the Old Detroit of social media.

Badly in need of ED 209.

The only really universal web community anymore is Facebook. I'll give you Linked In, but that's really more for business types who want to keep tabs on their competition, secretly looking for new jobs, or exploring another avenue of sucking up. OK, there are other social networks out there, but I think it's safe to agree that Facebook, for the time being, is the most popular and well used. I guess we can say Facebook is our interwebs home and landlord. Sure, everyone loved their digs. There weren't as many bullshit applications and outright spam like you would find on MySpace. It seemed more orderly and user friendly. Something about it make you feel comfortable and at home. But, behind that civilized, Norman Rockwell image, lurks one of the most corrupt and negligent slum lords you'll ever meet.

Something even worse than this.

Like millions of people who lack anything else to do, I built a Facebook page a few years ago. I fiddled around with the settings, privacy, and aesthetic shit. It wasn't without its charm. Then, the other shoe dropped and Facebook started ball tagging everyone with their random acts of bullshit.

1. Dicking with your profile settings:
This has happened to thousands of faithful users. One day, everything's hunky dory. You just finished joining every Jonas Brothers fan page that exists. You feel fulfilled. After changing your status message for the 50th time that day (everyone needs to know when you poop) you sign off, secure in the knowledge that your profile is worthy of some sort of Internet award. Something useful, not like that Pulitzer Prize crap. Maybe a lifetime supply of Irish whiskey, Trojans, and douche. I'm spit balling here.

Do they have whiskey scented?

Who are you kidding? You can't wait until morning to take another spin on Facebook. You're addicted, just like the rest of us. Go ahead. You know you want to. But, something is awry. Why the hell is only half my profile information showing? Why aren't the settings registering? Shit, none of the privacy settings I chose are working. No, asshole, I don't want my pic to be seen by people in federal prison. NO, do NOT give my address out to those serial rapists! For the last fucking time, STOP showing OJ Simpson as my grandfather! Who's fucking with me?

You've become the latest victim of something I like to call, "The Facebook-fuckedya." Sometimes it happens randomly. Other times it seems like you're the victim of a vendetta. All of the time, it sucks a mountain goat's ass. There's no rhyme or reason to it. It's Russian roulette. Sometimes the chamber has the bullet. Sometimes the revolver just goes "click." Once the Facebook fuckedya lands on you, it's hard as hell to escape it. It's a free social site. What the fuck do they care? You're not paying them. Maybe your profile was hacked. Maybe the server is fucked. Maybe Facebook hates your kind.

That's what I thought. Eat shit pug nuts.

2. Dicking with your pictures:

What's the equivalent of being robbed on Facebook? Having your pics swiped. No, no one hacked the system and stole your pics so he can print and show them off at the annual "Guess the bodily fluid stain" con. Facebook just decided to fuck with you.

Oh, fuck you.

Just one night they were gone. Again, no rhyme or reason. It lands on you like a glob of seagull shit. Go ahead, check. It won't do any good. Facebook has done its job well. Does this sound familiar?

Why can't I get into my photos? Horse shit! I just uploaded 5000 of my friend streaking through Mass after he got trashed on Listerine! What? "You do not have any photo albums." WTF? The hell I don't, mother fucker!

Or, better yet:
Why? What's wrong? Come on! Too much bare ass in it? Not enough? Fucking answer me!

3. Dicking with your access:
The aforementioned issues are bad enough. At least, you could gain access to the system to find out there was a problem. You can't even get in now. Correct screen name? Check. Correct password? Check. OK, I'll just reset the password, just in case. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Holy tap dancing Irish Jesus, what the fuck is taking Facebook so long to email me that confirmation code? Finally! OK, new password. SHIT! It's still cock blocking me.

Trust me. Pictures of actual cock blocking were horrific.

What?

What the fuck does this even mean?


That's the pot calling the kettle black, you sanctimonious assholes!

4. Outright not giving a shit:
Fine. Facebook is riddled with problems in the same way our national warning system it riddled with complete and utter ass pudding. We have a voice! We will be heard! Contact the administrators and give them an earful of your bitching.

Do it. Try to reach someone, fudge sack.

You follow the logical steps one would take in order to get to the "contact Facebook" page. The problem is that there is no direct route from A to B to C. If you want to get to the page with the feedback form, you first get dumped into what they call a Help Center.

All LIES!

Naturally, you select the "Contact Facebook" link. That's what they want you to do.

WTF? What does any of this have to do with contacting Facebook?

Nice try, but they've thought of that. Facebook and its bevy of third world tech agents don't want to actually speak to you. Instead, they throw you like a week old baloney sandwich into the trash that is their pre answered questions. Mostly, these FAQs are created to help the mouth breathing Velcro sneaker wearing mentally fuckedafied do basic things like log on and type. It's useless for the rest of us. No! I want real answers that don't read like Chinese stereo instructions, damn it!

Screw it. What's next? Hey, what's this?


Fucktastic. It's a Facebook users' blog chocked full of thousands of other confused and frustrated sons-a-bitches looking for a glimmer of hope. The blog is more of a sounding board about how much Facebook sucks leprechaun nuts than an actual helpful resource. Most of it of the posts are peppered with spelling errors that could technically put you in that windowless "special" class in junior high. Shit, shit, shit shit shit!

Me no git whi my profil cant be showed good.

The only way to contact Facebook is to stumble upon the "Hacked Profile" link. You saw it before, but you figured since your profile wasn't technically hacked, you had no business using it. Well, 45 minutes have passed and you're fuming with pipe bomb building rage! Fuck it! Fill the bastard out!

Why the hell would anyone want to be a "fan" of Facebook security?

You fill out the form and then Facebook slaps you in the face, yet again.

Working on getting this fixed as soon as you can?
When the fuck will that be?

Yuppers, they come right out and tell you that your problem is, in fact, your problem. They'll get to it if and when they have time to. Not a cotton pick'n moment before.

After some more wandering around the Help site, you finally find a bug report link. It's completely understandable why you were unable to find it in the two hours you've been trapped in Facebook help center hell. It's conveniently buried 27 aggravating pages in. Go on. Submit a "bug report" but the answer is the same.

"Although we're unable to reply to every bug report at this time, we may contact you for more details about the issue as we investigate the report. Thank you for taking the time to improve the site."

Translation: Fuck you.

Perhaps, one of the best examples of Facebook just not giving an elephant's shit comes from their own stock response. The same generic, automated script is posted to issues on the user blogs that are serious and can potentially deal the Dead Man's hand to your account and sanity.

"We are aware of the problem that you described and apologize for the inconvenience. Unfortunately, we do not have a specific date for when this issue will be resolved but hope to fix it as soon as possible. We appreciate your patience."

Thanks for contacting Facebook,
Catriona
User Operations Facebook

This is one of many automatic "piss off" responses spat out at the masses. This particular one was posted in October of 2007. The bug was posted in March of that year. The fucking problem still runs rampant all over Facebook over TWO YEARS LATER. Thanks for nothing Catriona, if that is your realy name.

Catriona?

What's the best thing to do when your Facebook profile is plagued with glitches, errors, and overall fucktarded problems? Well, this little Irish girl burned the city to save the people. My account is FUBAR? Fine. I'll level its ass.

Pictured: Lesser of two evils.

I deactivated my account and started over again. Sure, that was a complete pain in the ass and I lost a couple of years worth of electronic memories. Hindsight tells me that Facebook isn't a necessary part of life. Mankind existed before it, right? In theory, we don't need social media to function. Don't you remember what I said in the beginning of this article? Facebook is like heroin. I may not need it, but I fucking NEED IT!

Yes. Now give mama another fix.

"So You Think You Can" Shows FOX Would Never Broadcast

By Tresckow

You can't swing a dead woodchuck without flipping by dozens of "reality" shows on television. E! pretty much built the majority of their network on them. MTv crams 30 hours worth of Real World;" crap into a 24 hour day.

Then there's FOX. They're no guiltier for slapping "reality" shows out there than anyone else. A minority are bearable. Hell's Kitchen gives us all an extra special glimpse into the personal hell Gordon Ramsey dishes out week after week. That's just wholesome entertainment.

That's it, Chef. Make them cry. Make them all cry!

As Roode pointed out, FOX, more than likely, will never get the stones to truly break the mold. The majority of television is predictable and God awful. FOX can churn out diaper after shitty diaper of “So You Think You Can” bullshit. “So You Think You Can Dance?” “So You Think You Can Sing?” They’re not even bothering to think of new titles for this fecal milkshake FOX calls television.

Go ahead. Take a sip. Do you feel lucky?

To appeal to a wider audience and to shatter the predictability factor (not to mention the taste factor) some out of the box thinking is needed. It’s a no brainer, really. These possibilities create themselves. True, some may be slightly offensive. You watch shit like “Rock of Love” and anything with that clap trap Paris Hilton and tell me that shit isn’t offensive to the entire human race.

You tell me that you don't need every VD shot known to mankind just by looking at Paris Hilton.

After hours of planning and throwing show ideas around with the home office, five alternative “So You Think You Can” shows stood up and slapped us in the face with a cold, slightly rotting tender loin. Screw it. It wasn’t so much “hours” or “planning” as much as it was spouting bullshit and drinking the finest alcohol a car radiator could distill on the way to the track.

...and the mash goes right here. We'll be all sorts of fucked up when we get to pappy's funeral.

So You Think You Can…

… Survive a Nuclear Blast?

This concept would require the latest remote camera technology. Who the hell is going to want to film this on location? I guess the camera crew could sport radiation suits, but the shit really restricts your movement. The cameras are going to have to catch every appendage dropping, hair thinning moment.

This happened as soon as the opening credits ran. He had hair like Sanjaya in the transport this morning.

Take a group of “contestants” and dangle a million dollar prize in their faces. This task is easy. There are no weekly challenges, quests, or voting people off the island. We simply let nature and the human tissue damaging radiation crank out the entertainment for us.

The premise is simple; dump the group onto a deserted island. Tell them it’s a “Survivor” type reality game show. Come on, it’s not far from the truth. When they arrive, they see crate after crate of food and tremendous stores of fresh water. Their minds will race with questions.

• That’s funny; no one has to hunt for food here.
  
• Wait, where’s the camera crew? It’s all done by remote.
  
• There’s no host?
• Why is the boat that dropped us off speeding away like it’s trying to break the five minute mile?
  
• Is that an airplane engine I hear?

Shit! There's only one thing behind door number one, isn't there?

One blinding flash of light and mushroom cloud later, the show really begins. The last contestant to succumb to the horrors of radiation particles punching their way through their bodies on the cellular level wins! I suppose, technically, the next of kin would win the prize. That will all be taken care of in the pre- production paperwork and release forms.

… Escape a Concentration Camp?

Yea, I hear you. A concentration camp? You fucking monster! I know in the latter half of the 20^th century and the early 21^st concentration camps have been synonymous with the Holocaust. If you think that, for a second, I’m belittling that, I want you to punch yourself in the balls (or the equivalent) as hard as you can. I’ve seen “Schindler’s List,” motherfucker.

That's not a shopping list they're typing, you insensitive douche.

Plenty of other nations have employed concentration camps and the like. Open a high school text book or search Wikipedia. Why, we have the Soviets, Canada, Japanese, British, and even the good ‘ol US of A. Don’t act surprised with that one. Look around hard enough and you'll find that nobody's hands are clean in this one.

Now, that shit is out of the way, we can move on. Stay with me here. A group of contestants are transported to an old, semi-active gulag somewhere in Eastern Europe. They won’t be too hard to find. If we look hard enough, we’ll have a good chance of finding a few operational ones. A deal can be struck with the fascist regime running the show. They probably won’t be the worse “organization” FOX has joined forces with.

"Ja wo, Herr Murdoch. I think we can reach an agreement. as long as that Family Guy spin off "Cleavland's Show"

never makes it to a second run. Are we clear?"

The show basis is simple; a group of contestants in desperate need for recognition are shackled and transported to the camp. All that needs to be done to win the contest is to escape. That’s it. Just endure the lice ridden conditions, vicious beatings, and the occasional meal of rancid pigeon meat. Keep your eye on the prize. Do what you have to, sell out who you have to, make deals with the devil; whatever it takes to construct your escape plan. Dodge the search lights, roving patrols of guards with dogs, and the mine field surrounding three quarters of the camp then you’re home free. That’s assuming the camp isn’t nestled somewhere in the Ural Mountains. Imagine a combination of “I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here,” “The Running Man,” and “Jacob the Liar.”

OK. Maybe more Running Man than we let on. It's friggin Buzzsaw!

To boost ratings and to kill two birds with one stone, FOX can throw in the show plot for the obligatory “I’m a fat ass, watch me try to lose weight and fail miserably,” bullshit on each season. It’s a bowel impacted guarantee that everyone on this show will drop weight faster than “TMZ” can shoot photos of some coked up Hollywood tramp’s crab trap while getting out of her car.

You know what we mean.

… Escape the Plantation?

Yes, this one is another show that could be considered “controversial.” No, hundreds of years of black slavery and overall persecution won’t be dumbed down for entertainment’s sake. In fact, this show has a twist. One that will strike ratings gold!

All the contestants are white. That’s right. Not just white, but fancy pants trust fund fucko white. Each and every one will be a pretty boy cracka on par with Spencer Pratt from “The Hills.” All the contestants will also have the same crippling social and intellectual retardation dripping from most of the Aryan douche bags on the E! network.

You should look worried, dick bag.

Why should Black History be restricted to one month? Spoiled fucktards latched to their family’s financial teat will learn, first hand, what it was like for U.S. slaves. Pick that cotton you goatee wearing wannabe Hollywood douche! No venti lattes here, ass clowns. Go ahead, bitch and moan about it. Regular beatings are included. After a long, scorching day in the fields, our spoiled crackas get to take a load off in their flea infested shacks. You can’t call your publicist now asshole. You want this to end? All you have to do is wait until the middle of the night and make a break for it. Just avoid the search dogs and roving groups of cracka haters looking to kick the shit out of you. Follow the underground cracka railroad to freedom. Where’s freedom? It’s Rodeo Drive, silly.

Not included: wireless internet, electricity, sanitation.

Included: Fleas, disease, and the occasional bear home invasion.

… Outrun a Cheetah?

With the advent of “Pros VS Joes” on Spike TV, the gauntlet has been thrown down for sports related reality shows. I think. I can’t really think of any other ones. “Tough Enough” sort of fit the bill, but it was too MTv “Real World’ to be taken seriously. It was weak on physical danger and spine splintering mayhem and too heavy with soap operatic dumbassary. Not having actually watched “Pros VS Joes” I can’t say, for sure, it’s too different. All I really know is that the likely hood of someone being wheeled away from the field, sentenced to a lifetime of sucking food through a straw is a shit ton greater.

Quitter.

In this show, there’s no touchy feely, emotionally driven bullshit by dipshits racked with inferiority complexes. There is only survival driven, pants shitting fear. This show would be relatively easy and inexpensive to produce. The only expenses would be cheetah rental and a good bio- clean up team that can get blood out of Astroturf.

The rules are straightforward; outrun the fucking cheetah. There’s a starting gate and a finish line. The contestant is given a thirty second head start. At the finish line, a gigantic steamer trunk stuffed with thousand dollar bills rests on a pedestal of solid gold. To sweeten the deal, naked women parade around with cold beer and beef jerky in hand. Check that. There’s only one reward worth this ordeal.

I'm sorry. What was I saying? Give me a minute.

All you have to do is OUTRUN THE BLOOD THRISTY KILLING MACHINE pursuing your dumb ass at mind liquefying speed. The odds are that most contestants won’t make it thirty yards before the cheetah catches up and rips out their jugular. FOX could potentially fit close to 25 different competitors in one jammed packed hour of entrails flying around like confetti at a Mummers parade.

We're sure you'll do fine...

… Find Your Ass With Both Hands?

This concept is not as easy as it sounds. Sure, you can probably find your ass with both hands right now. Odds are that you’re sitting on it. It’s hard to miss. But, there is a host of jackasses in the world who would view this challenge on the level of writing a mathematical equation illustrating the cosmic string theory and its practical application to baking apple pie.

Shit! Forgot to account for the cinnamon sugar factor.

Again, we don’t have to look too far to find an ass load of participants. Hollywood provides us with an ever flowing well spring of saliva dribbling sushi eating dill weeds. There are tons of B and C list celebrities trying to start or breathe life into their shameful careers. Sweet Alvis, the list is endless. The Hollywood “elite” is chocked full of bung holes honestly incapable of locating their asses without the aid of at least three assistants.

"Yes, sir. We've located your ass and are emailing directions."

The contestant search would be extremely rigorous. Only the batshit crazy and brain dead will make the cut. Be it massive brain damage due to decades of drug use or natural, inbred idiocy, this show will NEVER run out of contestants. Look at the possibilities: Jessica Simpson, Nicole Richie, Ozzy Osborne, Paris Hilton, Paula Abdul, ANYONE from “Rock of Love”… the list is endless. If that shit-tastically retarded Spencer Pratt survives “So You Think You Can Escape the Plantation” actually does escape, his bleach blond, flesh colored beard ass can be vomited onto this show.

We're no where near done with you, shit stain.

There are dozens of shows ripe for production; all of them relatively easy and inexpensive. Not one of these shows will disappoint. Use what resources that are already available and repackage them. Shit, they’re doing the same thing, only extremely half assed. How many times can a network slap successive Roman numerals on the same steaming pile of scripted reality? When will they realize that only changing the last word in the title doesn’t translate to new? Eventually CBS will run out of locations for “Survivor” and end up with yawn educing locales, such as: Survivor: Wales or Survivor: Manitoba. Riveting.

3 Ways to Avoid Needless Chit Chat With the Useless

By Roode

You hear the old expression, "Life is short. Live life to the fullest," flung around as if it were a sage-like advice. Define short? Short in comparison to what? If that's coming form a 90 year old, should we punch him in the face? He's a damn liar. His life was plenty long. Chances are he's wasted a good bit of it and is just bitching and moaning that he's fertilizer waiting for a bag. How can you live every minute of every day to the fullest? People have to take shits. Tell me how you live life to the fullest when sitting on the throne, making splashes with what used to be breakfast?

Still time well spent.

Alright, let's assume I agree on some level. In the grand scheme of things, I suppose life is short. It just feels painfully long and aggravating. So, if we're supposed to zip from one fulfilling life experience to the next, why does there seem to be a conspiracy to throw up as many hurdles as possible? Let's be realistic here and apply this to normal, everyday life. You may not be running with the bulls in Spain, but you still have an agenda. It could be a simple one; get through the work day without shoving a stapler up someone's ass. Perhaps, it's to buy food or simply to go from point A to point B. Most of us aren't asking too much from life. Most of us are happily satisfied if we manage to buy a bag of Doritos without a major clusterfuck to take a dump all over our plans. We feel tip top then.

That's right, Jackson. Everything is a little bit of alright.

You can bet a sheep's anus (a delicacy in Scotland), that there will always be someone there to throw a monkey wrench into your gears. It might not be intentional, but it still burns through time you'll never get back. It looks innocent enough, mindless chit chat and such. After a while, the barrage of needless banter starts to feel like slogging through wet cement. All you want to do is buy some friggin beer and porn! A task that should only take five minutes is stretched out to 45, because you're bum rushed by useless yammering from complete strangers. It's like quick sand. The more you try to get out, the more you sink. Sure, you try to be polite and send subtle signals like slowly moving to the door, looking at your watch, or setting your pants on fire. The problem is, some of these wonder-tards just keep raining down their conversational holocaust. It must stop! Here are a few quick tips to completely slam the door on some asshat spewing verbal diarrhea.


Tip 1: Appear TOO interested and excited
So there you are; in line at the liquor store buying a few bottles of Boones. Then, BAM! All of a sudden the 65 year old douche that smells like day old Cheetos behind you starts yakking about some bullshit his grand kid did, said, or pantomimed. You look ahead and see the line is at a dead stop, because some fuck face is buying a case of Cisco and is paying by check. There are, at least, 12 people in front of you and not a damn one has less than 6 bottles of low grade alcohol/medium grade paint thinner. The old guy yaps and yaps and YAPS. He doesn't take a breath. Little Billy did the cutest thing. Billy loves cupcakes. Billy's mother and father are actually brother and sister. There's no end in sight. Before you smash one of the bottles of delicious malt beverage over his head and piss all over his stained cardigan, try something totally unexpected. Be uncomfortably interested in what he's saying.

Really? Tell me more, friend!

"But, Roode, " you're saying, "That will just encourage him." Sit down and shut up. True, polite "Oh reallys" and "Uh-huhs" will send him the message that you're, at least, feigning interest. If you want to derail his verbal stoning you have to freak him the fuck out. Turn completely around. Don't just turn half way. Do an about face, damn it. Get uncomfortably close. I'm talking less than three inches from his wrinkled, blubbery face. Stop blinking. This is important. In fact, open your eyes as wide as you can. The wider the better. Lean in and let him get a good face full of your crazy.

Get completely Christopher Lloyd on his ass!

Employ William Shatner like overacting. You'll want to be as loud as you can too. Loud and obscene. Act like everything he says is mind blowing. "NO WAY?" "Billy ate all the cookies?" "HOLY SHIT! Macaroni art?" "Mother fucker, that goddamn kid can count?! Son of a bitch!" Trust me, if the clerk doesn't call the police, that old bastard will drop his bottle of Old Grand Dad and run out of the store. Well, hobble out of the store at any rate.

Tip 2: Inappropriately touch yourself
Note I said inappropriately touch YOURSELF. So, don't get any strange ass ideas. We want to confine the blast radius and keep out of the sexual offenders database.

You get out of the liquor store with your bottles of piss wine intact. The clerk didn't even charge you full price, because he just wanted you to get the hell out of his store. Whatever. Eat shit Apu. Was that racist? No. The clerk is actually painfully Irish. I call him, Apu, for the sake of irony. So, no racism here.

See? Just your run of the mill alcohol slinging Mick.

You get to the parking lot and briskly trot to your car. It's time to get the fuck out of Dodge. Your lunch hour is almost over and you have to get back to the office to do some serious drinking. All of a sudden, you're blindsided by some chump you met while somewhere at sometime in some stage of inebriation. He comes over and lets loose a shit storm of mouth noise. You can't jump in the car and gun it, because he's standing juuuust close enough to the door to prevent you from slamming it shut. You make a fist, betting this guy will go down like a wet sack of shit. Wait! There's another way.

Or a bag of wet cement, if it's easier to find.

Out of no where, feel yourself up. I'm serious. You want to leave and the only way to break off this mind rotting conversation is to create such awkwardness and disgust that this guy doesn't ever approach you again. In fact, his descendants will steer clear from yours. This is how out and out fucked up batshit crazy you have to get.

Begin by gently caressing your chest. Then move your hands to start squeezing your own ass. Gyrate a little. Don't be shy. Might as well go the whole nine now. That's it, make him feel the pain. Keep a straight face. Don't let on that you're even aware this is happening. Grab your crotch like it's trying to get away. Stick your hand down your pants and keep it there. This conversation won't last long.

Warning: This will, in no way, work if you are Hayden Panettiere

Tip 3: Talk to the voices in your head
You read that right. In times where sheer awkwardness, obscenity, and inappropriate self touch won't work or aren't possible one has to pull out all the stops.

You finally make it back to the office, your brown paper bag of Boones held firmly under your arm. Your office and it's secret wet bar are waiting. Hoping no one notices you're a little late from lunch (it's 3:oo, lunch ran a teeny bit over) you make a mad dash around the corner. Like a crash test dummy hitting the concrete wall, Barry verbally body checks you. Fuck. Barry. He spends most of his day going from office to office shooting the shit with anyone and everyone. How the hell does he get any work done? Sure, you really aren't an office dynamo, using the George Costanza method of "looking annoyed makes you look busy." Still, you're not bothering coworkers by ear raping them with pointless bullshit.

You probably won't be shirtless, though. This is your call.

It's time to drop the Hiroshima bomb of conversation stoppers. Trust me, in the long run, it will be best. Right in the middle of Barry's looooooong and pointless story about how he noticed the 1023Y form was mistakenly in the slot for the 1024Y let it go. Start off slowly. Blink uncontrollably. look, first, to your left. Then, look to your right. Blurt out a "Shhhhhhhhh! I'm talking to Barry. Not now!" At the very least, Barry should see that something's a little off.

Now, employ full crazy. Ask Barry to hold on for one second. Turn around to the wall and begin holding a sidebar conversation with it. "Hey man, can you believe that mix up? Barry sure saved the day." Break out in laughter, as if the wall replied. Pat it on the "back" for a quip well said. Look at Barry and say something to the tune of, "Man, he's so right. "

It may not look like much, but this wall is one hell of a conversationalist.

Then, look at the wall on the other side. Shake your head vigorously. "No!" You are wrong!" "What the fuck is wrong with you man? Barry is standing right here!" Apologize to Barry and assure him that that wall in no way speaks for you or the other wall.

This wall, however, is a cock.

Ask Barry if he would like to get drinks after work. Just you, him, and the wall. Not the other wall. He's a dick. The good wall. You'll find that Barry Shuffles of to Buffalo to put as much distance between you and your talkative walls as humanly possible.

Some of you may accuse me of taking antisocial-ness to the extreme. I am a firm believer that 85% of conversation during the day can be eliminated. It's all useless. It's crap. The remaining 15% only needs to pertain to alcohol, food, sex, television, and money. This is for efficiency's sake. It's the next step in human evolution.

Sincerely,
Roode

P.S.: Look for "How to Effectively Derail a Conversation With Your Boss"coming soon. Which means, whenever I get around to it.