Sweet Tweets!
Twitter is an interesting beast. When I first started an account years ago ( a.k.a. I was on twitter before you so… COME AT ME BRAH! I AM the internet. WHAT?) it was slim pickins’ on who to follow, so, naturally I clogged my feed with anybody and everybody who advertised with an @ before his name. Then Twitter started recommending other “celebrities” based on my “preferences,” and who was I to shun it’s intelligence? I was content sending 140 characters about crazy homeless people on the bus out into this void where no one would ever read them. My twitter account just grew and grew like a cancerous hell-beast, and my follower list grew too, full of spam-bots and porn-bots and doctor-bots and basically any -bot you can think of. This being said, my twitter feed sucks more nuts every day, but there is nothing to be done, it has snowballed into something bigger than me. I think I need to hire an intern to streamline my account or something. That’s like a social media, digital community manager, assistant role, right?
Instead of un-following Martha Stewart and Lauren Conrad and Kim Kardashian (worst tweeter in the world) and DJ Pauly D (better than Kim K. but still…) I have made vain attempts at overshadowing their shit-storm of sponsored tweets for Xenadrine and cellulite cream by rapidly following local comedians and regular comedians and members of the Upright Citizen’s Brigade, but the thing is, real people, with funny shit to say, they just can’t tweet fast enough to keep up with the evil robot tweeting about protein shakes for Vanessa Manillo. It’s honestly just insulting to anyone with a 6th grade education to think that any “digital marketing professional” would assume a poorly written sentence with the #sponsored tag after it might motivate me to lift half a finger to find out about the product…I don’t think I would even want to use toilet paper anymore if Brody Jenner endorsed it: “Dude, I love wiping my ass with @quiltedangelsoft! I’m doing it now! #sponsored”
UGH.
Don’t get it twisted, I really like Twitter and I agree that it has changed the way we transmit and receive information. (Comm. 101 textbook talk right thurr) I got mad respeck’ for the shit! It’s a tool of the FUTURE! All I’m saying is once you trash your Twitter account there’s almost no turning back. Despite my struggle I still chirp at my 254 followers, even though probably less than 10 are listening.
I always like to capitalize on a captive audience, so I’ve shared some of my recent twitterings below, and since there’s no character limit on this B, I’ve taken the liberty of adding some context:
SERIOUSLY! Skinny people are too serious…that’s why you were funny…because you were fat…like Star Jones…she got skinny and shit got weird…she married that gay dude and started fighting Barbara Walters on The View. I don’t care how tight that tummy tuck is honey! NO ONE PUTS BABS IN A CORNER! Not to mention fat to skinny celebs all look weirdly sunken-in and droopy-dog-like.
Just a truth bomb. Too bad it’s 2011. Oh well, the world is gonna end in a year anyways, right?
Before you could secretly waste money alone in front of your computer you could secretly waste money alone on your couch, in front of your TV, on the phone: Chia Pets, Muzzy, Thigh-Master (BTW: I’ve always wanted one of those) etc. etc.
Still waiting on an answer to that one…if you watch the reunion specials you’ll know what I’m talking about! I thought body oil was exclusively found on the sets of low-budge porno, get it together, BRAVO.
Not ALWAYS true…you can know the person pretty well…but you totes wanna M.O. (apologies if i’ve recently “liked” your boyfriend’s status on Facebook…you probs need to stop being so literal anyways.)
My personal favorite because it elicited a response from a random asshole! YES! Well, EvilGenius1000, you’re right, I am alone. But at least I’m not giving some nerd in a Dorito-crumbed Eagles jersey head on a moldy couch while he accidentally dribbles salsa off his chip into my hair and searches Twitter for tweets about “football jerseys.” Just saying.
