- ...whether my socks match.
- ...how many donuts I've eaten on a given day.
- ...how many idiots on whom I've dropped the atomic leg for trying to eat my last donut.
- ...how many buffalo chicks I've tried to pass off upon whomever I'm at the bar with.
- ...various violent bowel movements and what caused them.
- ...the number of times I've popped it and locked it and dropped it in the past hour.
- ...updates to and new applications of the Hollywood Starlet Equivalent Index.
- ...which celebrities I think are worth listening to (so far: Ochocinco, the Iron Sheik, and someone pretending to be Flava Flav, who appears to be harassing Miley Cyrus...).
- ...who annoyed me on public transportation enough to piss me off but not enough to warrant a full blog entry.
- ...whatever random thought involving various perfectly natural bodily functions is making me giggle like a schoolgirl.
- ...the number of times I dropped it, hit it, dumped it, split it, don't stop, get it, get it since my last donut.
- ...which homeless people you can safely risk eye contact with.
- ...whether or not I managed to remember the username and password I drunkenly created tonight.
All told, the aggregate IQ of the Interwebs just jumped five points. Although I'm still not sure I understand exactly what the Twatter is doing. Back in my day...
- ...we had to walk five miles, up hill, in the snow, without shoes or comfortable undies to ask our best friend for his screen name.
- ...we could warn and ban our friends just for the fun of it.
- ...we had no clue that Flava Flav was fucking with Miley Cyrus unless it was reported on TMZ.
- ...our phones only got text messages, and then only if we had enough data left on our plans and if we were being followed around by that creepy Verizon dude and his cult.
- ...tweeting was exclusive to parakeets and little birdies circling the brows of those with recent head trauma.
- ...nobody knew how to spell, but they couldn't use the Interwebs as an excuse.
You little shits don't know how good you've got it. Now get off my lawn and get a damn job or I swear I'll close up my robe, hide this bottle of Old English in a paper bag under my rocking chair, and come down off this porch to tan your prissy little hide like we used to do on MySpace.
