Facebook is a lot more like Stonehenge then a casual glance would reveal. Consider: Facebook is big, and of obvious importance. Facebook didn’t come with any instructions, although there are any number of arguable opinions regarding its optimal function. Facebook is formed of large cut stones, and most believe it’s some sort of time-keeping device, possibly left here by aliens.
OK. Just seeing if you were paying attention, cause the rest of this shit is important. There’s gonna’ be a codifyin’ and a etchin’ in stone here tonight. DSL has been asked, by the very aliens who brought you Stonehenge, to put forth the rules for the successful and enlightening use of Jesse Eisen-Zuckerberg’s billion dollar nerd-vanity optimizer. And fuck yeah, the writers and staff of the DeeEssEll were only too happy to bring the tablets down from the mountain. Nothing penultimate about this, children. The following is how we roll from here on out, and the aliens have crackhead beat-downs for any nay-say. So read. Share. Commit to memory. And don’t fuggitup. These Stonehenge aliens are not fucking around.
FACEBOOK MEGA-RULE #50 (No, there’s not fifty Facebook rules, but the aliens is cagey. They left forty-two extra slots for evolution and amendment. No more questions!) :
No Hang Up’s: Your sorry ass will not bail if somebody you don’t want to chat with says “Hello.” It’s just common courtesy people. This bullshit is the pixilated equivalent of being approached at a party by somebody you’re (at least semi) friendly with, and then when they start talking you turn around and pretend to not be standing right fucking there. C’mon dude, that’s not you. I mean, it was you who friend-ed the poor boob in the first place. At least give’em a polite pat on the tits and say “I gotta take a leak,” or something. You can’t just stand there and not talk! That’s what crazy people do. Answer motherfucker.
FBMR #49: No Locations, No Maps. We don’t need to know where you are, asshole. I’m shaking my head in disgust at the very thought of this puzzling Facebook trope. Never really a problem until the dawn of the iPhone, these days the shit’s as common as divorce and reality TV shows. Ask yourself: before Facebook, was I in the habit of calling through my contacts list to alert my friends of my daily errands? If you answer that affirmatively, well, you’re a total dick, and - I guess - good luck with that. We understand, you’re at the baseball game, at the casino, at the yanky-cranky disguised as a shoe shop on Gano Street, hey, go ahead and drop a line. Maybe we’ll join up! But if you’re stopped at the Mobil on Rt. 4 trying to choose between Twinkies and Sno-balls, leave us out of it fatty! Annoying motherfucker.
And following that:
FBMR #48: You’re Fat. That’s right. You, who just status-reported your lame, fatty-pants workout. Again it’s a question of continuity. In your pre-Facebook life was it your custom to finish running /walking 1.3 miles, and then call everyone you know, and lie, and say you ran twelve good miles and got twelve more in ya? NOBODY CARES ABOUT THIS NONSENSE, YOU EGO-CRAZED SHITHEAD. You are fat, and you are a liar, and you will continue to be those things no matter how many fantasy-miles you virtual-jog, or computer-friends you lie to. What’s that? You say I’m wrong, that you’re not a fuckin’ Plains Buffalo lined with Under-Armour ™? NO, fuck face. You are fat fat fatty fat fat fuck, if not now then later, and by later I mean SOONER. It’s a truth you cannot outrun no matter how many fuckin’ people you mislead with these arrogant, unnecessary health-bulletins. Stop it. Yes I know, Apple makes apps designed specifically for this asinine purpose. But we’ll leave #49 with the words of the great Chris Rock who said: “You could drive a car with your fuckin’ feet if you want to, but that don’t mean it’s to be DONE.”
FMBR #47: Swear early, swear often. Where was it ever put down that swearing was to be kept off the Zuckerberg-ian Bandwidth? So many %$^#*$#($ it’s like a f#*kin’ “Shoe” comic strip. Dude, who are we worried about offending? Again, did you avoid profanity in the horse-and-buggy days of email? If you did, then continue to do so and continue to miss out on the sheer immature buzz of dropping FUCK, in computer form, for an odd thousand of your friends, and your friend’s fucking friends. It’s awesome. FUCK! See there, we did it again. Added a fuckin’ exclamation point for empha-fucking-sis! This is how we talk in the brutal, violent, sub-waste of post 9/11 America. This is what Thomas Jefferson fought for at Khe Sanh! It’s what fuck-shitting George Washington died for in South mother-cunting Korea. They didn’t fight so you could hit the “shift” key, taint-master. You wanna’ play that shit, move to Russia. You can drink vodka, and speak clean little Russian sentences about perma-frost, and how Russian girls are beautiful, yet awkwardly opportunistic and un-fucking-trustworthy.
FBMR #46: Clear your inbox douchey! Self explanatory, I think, but obviously not obvious to many. If you get a message and stay off Facebook, entirely, for a month and then don’t answer well, no avoiding that. But don’t just ignore some shit you know is there. Have some class dick! You’re blogging your facial, status-noting your jury duty, wishing your stupid mom happy birthday (tell her we said “Hi!”) while blasting out chain-letters about cancer, and your retarded friends, and your retarded friends with cancer… Meanwhile, fuckin’ rube, we messaged you about the 300 bucks you owe us like a year ago. Why the avoiding? Hell, if that’s the way this shit goes down, why not just come to my house, kidnap my children, and stick a frozen banana up my wife’s ass? It’s basically the same move. Man up, man!
FMBR #45: No blanket, one-line “thank-you’s” to personal birthday wishes. Have some class jerk! We took the five seconds to cheer about your birthday which, we might add, we care NOTHING about. Now reciprocate and thank us, dummy! Not later, in another status update with everybody else. Now! In the little comment thingy, just under where I lied and claimed to give shit-one about your life-force anniversary. See, this whole thing is about lying: Lying about how I remembered your birthday. Lying about how I remember the night you bought that hooker, and it turned out to be a dude, and you still plowed away and then cried drunkenly, making us take a blood-oath not to tell. Lying about how awesome your stupid blog is, and how you’re so talented. The lies people. The fucking, fucking, god-fucking lies. Ugggh!
FMBR #44: No chain-letter status update. Chain letters, even if they are for a good cause, and in electronic-shape, are still chain letters. This is where the, “if you did it before the internet, then keep doing it” rule breaks down. Even if you are that kind of goat-fuck that perpetuates a chain letter from the actual US Mail, don’t bring that ass-water to the screen. I’m unemployed. I have, like, negative money. My wife and kids hate my fucking face, and I’m fat, and pasty like a full bag of pizza-dough from the cooler at Dave‘s ™. Every few minutes my chest flares with a mysterious, yet familiar pain-feeling. I haven’t had sex since the “Seinfeld” finale, and my parents will not willfully admit to having birthed me. Despite all of this, I stick my fat, dumb, zitty face in the wind everyday, like a fuckin’ man, and soldier. Only now I have to read that unless I send your stupid, cancer screed-mail to one hundred people that I suspect already hate me, I’ll will reap worse luck than I am already (despite massive probability to the contrary) enduring ! Well motherfuck that. I ‘aint doin’ it. Send that shit to your stupid family, and if you’re in my stupid family, then send it somewhere else. A polite society has to maintain limits.
FMBR #43: Don’t make me even more stupid. This last one is more general than the others, but it’s just as important, and maybe even more-so because now we’re really getting to the dynamic heart of the beast. We have friends who send us little “what’s your favorite…movie / TV show / means of meth-ingestion?,” status questions. We like those. We also have friends who send out music videos and interviews with cool rock stars, and we love that shit. But the things we love the most (besides DVDA and squirting vids of course) are the status updates that say “hey, we’re going to be doing this, and here’s what time it’s at, and where it is, and we want you there cause even though you’re fat and we hate you, the shit will be more fun if your corpulent, hated ass is around the area. Facebook, like the internet itself, isn’t for gazing at. It’s a miracle, don’t ever doubt it, but not so everybody can carry their entire social existence with them like some inventoried friend warehouse. It’s amazing that we converse regularly with, like, ten people we went to fuckin’ elementary school with! Seriously. That shit is fucking crazy-town. But if the extent of the relationship is an accepted friend request with no more interaction, or sharing of thoughts (and good, stinky weed), then why bother douchebag? It’s the same as not having contacted that elementary school person, only now you have one more audience member laughing when your life infrastructure gets terrorist-bombed into psyche-rubble. And who needs that shit? Go, leave the house, get drunk with people. Throw fuckin' toilet paper, take your clothes off, and shout racial epithets at police officers! (not you Todd, you’re totally cool). If you don’t, the aliens say they’re coming back, and anal probing your stupid kids while they work your nutz with a table saw and raw ethyl alcohol.
And they mean it. The aliens are not fucking around.
OK. Just seeing if you were paying attention, cause the rest of this shit is important. There’s gonna’ be a codifyin’ and a etchin’ in stone here tonight. DSL has been asked, by the very aliens who brought you Stonehenge, to put forth the rules for the successful and enlightening use of Jesse Eisen-Zuckerberg’s billion dollar nerd-vanity optimizer. And fuck yeah, the writers and staff of the DeeEssEll were only too happy to bring the tablets down from the mountain. Nothing penultimate about this, children. The following is how we roll from here on out, and the aliens have crackhead beat-downs for any nay-say. So read. Share. Commit to memory. And don’t fuggitup. These Stonehenge aliens are not fucking around.
FACEBOOK MEGA-RULE #50 (No, there’s not fifty Facebook rules, but the aliens is cagey. They left forty-two extra slots for evolution and amendment. No more questions!) :
No Hang Up’s: Your sorry ass will not bail if somebody you don’t want to chat with says “Hello.” It’s just common courtesy people. This bullshit is the pixilated equivalent of being approached at a party by somebody you’re (at least semi) friendly with, and then when they start talking you turn around and pretend to not be standing right fucking there. C’mon dude, that’s not you. I mean, it was you who friend-ed the poor boob in the first place. At least give’em a polite pat on the tits and say “I gotta take a leak,” or something. You can’t just stand there and not talk! That’s what crazy people do. Answer motherfucker.
FBMR #49: No Locations, No Maps. We don’t need to know where you are, asshole. I’m shaking my head in disgust at the very thought of this puzzling Facebook trope. Never really a problem until the dawn of the iPhone, these days the shit’s as common as divorce and reality TV shows. Ask yourself: before Facebook, was I in the habit of calling through my contacts list to alert my friends of my daily errands? If you answer that affirmatively, well, you’re a total dick, and - I guess - good luck with that. We understand, you’re at the baseball game, at the casino, at the yanky-cranky disguised as a shoe shop on Gano Street, hey, go ahead and drop a line. Maybe we’ll join up! But if you’re stopped at the Mobil on Rt. 4 trying to choose between Twinkies and Sno-balls, leave us out of it fatty! Annoying motherfucker.
And following that:
FBMR #48: You’re Fat. That’s right. You, who just status-reported your lame, fatty-pants workout. Again it’s a question of continuity. In your pre-Facebook life was it your custom to finish running /walking 1.3 miles, and then call everyone you know, and lie, and say you ran twelve good miles and got twelve more in ya? NOBODY CARES ABOUT THIS NONSENSE, YOU EGO-CRAZED SHITHEAD. You are fat, and you are a liar, and you will continue to be those things no matter how many fantasy-miles you virtual-jog, or computer-friends you lie to. What’s that? You say I’m wrong, that you’re not a fuckin’ Plains Buffalo lined with Under-Armour ™? NO, fuck face. You are fat fat fatty fat fat fuck, if not now then later, and by later I mean SOONER. It’s a truth you cannot outrun no matter how many fuckin’ people you mislead with these arrogant, unnecessary health-bulletins. Stop it. Yes I know, Apple makes apps designed specifically for this asinine purpose. But we’ll leave #49 with the words of the great Chris Rock who said: “You could drive a car with your fuckin’ feet if you want to, but that don’t mean it’s to be DONE.”
FMBR #47: Swear early, swear often. Where was it ever put down that swearing was to be kept off the Zuckerberg-ian Bandwidth? So many %$^#*$#($ it’s like a f#*kin’ “Shoe” comic strip. Dude, who are we worried about offending? Again, did you avoid profanity in the horse-and-buggy days of email? If you did, then continue to do so and continue to miss out on the sheer immature buzz of dropping FUCK, in computer form, for an odd thousand of your friends, and your friend’s fucking friends. It’s awesome. FUCK! See there, we did it again. Added a fuckin’ exclamation point for empha-fucking-sis! This is how we talk in the brutal, violent, sub-waste of post 9/11 America. This is what Thomas Jefferson fought for at Khe Sanh! It’s what fuck-shitting George Washington died for in South mother-cunting Korea. They didn’t fight so you could hit the “shift” key, taint-master. You wanna’ play that shit, move to Russia. You can drink vodka, and speak clean little Russian sentences about perma-frost, and how Russian girls are beautiful, yet awkwardly opportunistic and un-fucking-trustworthy.
FBMR #46: Clear your inbox douchey! Self explanatory, I think, but obviously not obvious to many. If you get a message and stay off Facebook, entirely, for a month and then don’t answer well, no avoiding that. But don’t just ignore some shit you know is there. Have some class dick! You’re blogging your facial, status-noting your jury duty, wishing your stupid mom happy birthday (tell her we said “Hi!”) while blasting out chain-letters about cancer, and your retarded friends, and your retarded friends with cancer… Meanwhile, fuckin’ rube, we messaged you about the 300 bucks you owe us like a year ago. Why the avoiding? Hell, if that’s the way this shit goes down, why not just come to my house, kidnap my children, and stick a frozen banana up my wife’s ass? It’s basically the same move. Man up, man!
FMBR #45: No blanket, one-line “thank-you’s” to personal birthday wishes. Have some class jerk! We took the five seconds to cheer about your birthday which, we might add, we care NOTHING about. Now reciprocate and thank us, dummy! Not later, in another status update with everybody else. Now! In the little comment thingy, just under where I lied and claimed to give shit-one about your life-force anniversary. See, this whole thing is about lying: Lying about how I remembered your birthday. Lying about how I remember the night you bought that hooker, and it turned out to be a dude, and you still plowed away and then cried drunkenly, making us take a blood-oath not to tell. Lying about how awesome your stupid blog is, and how you’re so talented. The lies people. The fucking, fucking, god-fucking lies. Ugggh!
FMBR #44: No chain-letter status update. Chain letters, even if they are for a good cause, and in electronic-shape, are still chain letters. This is where the, “if you did it before the internet, then keep doing it” rule breaks down. Even if you are that kind of goat-fuck that perpetuates a chain letter from the actual US Mail, don’t bring that ass-water to the screen. I’m unemployed. I have, like, negative money. My wife and kids hate my fucking face, and I’m fat, and pasty like a full bag of pizza-dough from the cooler at Dave‘s ™. Every few minutes my chest flares with a mysterious, yet familiar pain-feeling. I haven’t had sex since the “Seinfeld” finale, and my parents will not willfully admit to having birthed me. Despite all of this, I stick my fat, dumb, zitty face in the wind everyday, like a fuckin’ man, and soldier. Only now I have to read that unless I send your stupid, cancer screed-mail to one hundred people that I suspect already hate me, I’ll will reap worse luck than I am already (despite massive probability to the contrary) enduring ! Well motherfuck that. I ‘aint doin’ it. Send that shit to your stupid family, and if you’re in my stupid family, then send it somewhere else. A polite society has to maintain limits.
FMBR #43: Don’t make me even more stupid. This last one is more general than the others, but it’s just as important, and maybe even more-so because now we’re really getting to the dynamic heart of the beast. We have friends who send us little “what’s your favorite…movie / TV show / means of meth-ingestion?,” status questions. We like those. We also have friends who send out music videos and interviews with cool rock stars, and we love that shit. But the things we love the most (besides DVDA and squirting vids of course) are the status updates that say “hey, we’re going to be doing this, and here’s what time it’s at, and where it is, and we want you there cause even though you’re fat and we hate you, the shit will be more fun if your corpulent, hated ass is around the area. Facebook, like the internet itself, isn’t for gazing at. It’s a miracle, don’t ever doubt it, but not so everybody can carry their entire social existence with them like some inventoried friend warehouse. It’s amazing that we converse regularly with, like, ten people we went to fuckin’ elementary school with! Seriously. That shit is fucking crazy-town. But if the extent of the relationship is an accepted friend request with no more interaction, or sharing of thoughts (and good, stinky weed), then why bother douchebag? It’s the same as not having contacted that elementary school person, only now you have one more audience member laughing when your life infrastructure gets terrorist-bombed into psyche-rubble. And who needs that shit? Go, leave the house, get drunk with people. Throw fuckin' toilet paper, take your clothes off, and shout racial epithets at police officers! (not you Todd, you’re totally cool). If you don’t, the aliens say they’re coming back, and anal probing your stupid kids while they work your nutz with a table saw and raw ethyl alcohol.
And they mean it. The aliens are not fucking around.
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