Exhibit A: I just can't get into Twitter. I've been on the website about 14 times and I can't bring myself to set up an account. I don't know... just something about privacy that is very special to me. I just can't get into all the -
"Hey everybody, I'm about to go drop a poo."
"I'm really tired of my jeans falling down and giving everyone accidental plumber-vision; do you have that problem?"
"I'm about to get in bed... should I change out of these old cruddy boxers, or should I just turn them inside-out?"
"I just got into bed, shouldn't have turned them inside out."
"I just picked a boogie and I'm searching for the best covert spot to wipe."
Is that the kind of stuff you guys want to hear? Really? Am I the only person who thinks that telling everyone in the world what I'm doing at every moment is unbelievably BORING, and possibly gross?
Exhibit B: Facebook. This one I've tried really hard to like, and I do see its purpose... But there's just something about it... I get this icky feeling everytime get ready to post a slew of pictures... of myself. I mean, I like myself. I think I'm a decent looking fella... But ya just gots ta draw a line somewhere with all that "I'm too sexy for this shirt" attitude. Plus, if I get "you've been superpoked" one more time in my mail inbox I'm going to just ... go home and BITE MY PILLOW. What the heck does "superpoked" mean??? And whatever it means, it really sounds very wrong, and quite uncomfortable... and just downright unwelcome.
Exhibit C: I hate stats. First off, it is really depressing to discover that your biggest and best blog is one called "Jankum." And methinks that the people who ended up on my blog searching for "Jankum" weren't trying to find a story about my middle school days. I just bet they left a smidge disappointed. Just a hunch. Sorry pervs. And there sits that graph. Blast that stinking graph. One day its up, and one day its down. Pretty soon they are going to have stat-dysfunction-medicine commercials during the superbowl. And the only way to really keep people coming or to increase the number is to somehow sneak the words "Britney" and "boobs" into the post a few hundred times. Or "jankum."
So there you have it. Internet Fuddy-dud of the year. That's right. So, superpoke Twitter and Stats and Facebook and the horse they rode in on.
El-Fuddy Dud, Esq.
(Let it be said that I do NOT fault anyone for doing any of the aforementioned things. In some ways, I am quite jealous of those that garner great fun from these activities. I'm sort of like a young child with hands pressed upon on a glass pane, face smushed against its cold surface for a closer look, yet unable to see what all the other children see. I'm the man who forgot to bring his heavy-prescription glasses on the camping trip and can't discern the UFO from the moon, while all his other buddies ooooh and ahhhh, forever changed by their camping trip UFO encounter. These are my hang-ups and my issues. These are ways that I am painfully uncool and old-mannish. Thus, the Fuddy-dud award. Carry on.)