Friday, February 15, 2008

Google, you ignorant slut, what do you mean no matching documents found?

Are you f'n kidding me? WTMF?! And what are you doing now? Asking me did I mean something else? - And what was that, Suzy Sunshine? Maybe I should try again, putting quotes around grouped words? Seriously? You're advising me on how to compose a query? Ok, yeah, uh, bitch, now's whens you best be stepping the fuck off. This isn't my first rodeo.

C'mon, I'm not being crazy, am I? If there is one grand truth to the world, one shining point of light of Athenian promises and Herculean strength that makes the daily drop-to-your-knees, lips rounded and parted, suck-off acceptable it is this: Someone, somewhere, has posted it.

That's the moist smack of the Internet, no? That all information is available, you just have to look. That for every freak, there are 1,000 more just like you,huddled and whacking off to, well, whatever it is you are whack off to. The Internet is the Bushiest of uniters-not-dividers. Spread wide and ready for the insert of your query, your manifesto, your fanfic, and your family reunion pictures of Uncle Tommy passed out in the lawn chair, Heiny in hand, covered in silly-string.

It isn't a particularly picky lover but there's an agreement. An understanding between the Internet and us, right? We feed it. We put our petty shit out there. We lube up and shove in our secrets and our lusts. We disrobe and prance and feel pretty behind our avatars and our clever nom de jeu and give up the layers we have until we are a raw nub, just right for the mutual rubbing.

All the Internet has to do is be there for us. To never let us down. To hold us and let us freak out and cry we aren't pretty enough. That our friends don't really like us. That we are disappointed in life, ourselves, and our parents. It should be there to tell us how to find Mulberry Street and what is the highest Zagat-rated Thai joint in Chelsea. It should alert us when sad things happen and when Britney makes her 3am Rite-Aid run.

And, mostly, it should always be there, and have handy, any bit of information we are wanting. Because really, we've come to expect that. We've come to deserve it. We've given it our souls, our social security numbers, and our credit history. So, honestly, no matching documents found? Fuck you Internet. I never loved you in the first place. I've been fucking the NY Times Print Edition anyway.

p.s. I still love you, Internet. I still love your Google, it's just that... well, I can't be with you right now. Give me some time. Yeah, I remember when you won me that netsuke on eBay. Yeah, we've had some great times. We'll always have this Winona clip. - Fuck, baby, you know I love you. Come here. I just put on a fresh coat of lip plumper. Let's see how that feels on you. Let's see if I can leave a mark.


1 comment:

hfm said...

I love the way you expressed your anger at the Internet.
I agree, Google should serve us at all times, as we are constantly feeding it.

The Winona clip is just damn disturbing and wrong.
:/