Things I Hate


If membership statistics can be believed, over 90 million women swing their virtual purses in front of javascript meat markets like Myspace.com. Predictably, 90 million cyber Johns have swarmed to the iridescent glow of their computer monitors like sex-starved moths to a hot pink flame. The Internet has expanded knowledge, increased wealth and balanced power—certainly it can get us laid. As one of the one billion losers who thought exactly that, let me tell you—it can’t. Here’s why: it takes more than a cross-referencing database with streaming audio and a one-trillion terabyte membership archive to disarm combatants in the battle of the sexes. Any mouth breather with a rape conviction, spell check and a Kodak can turn himself into a “buff and rugged fireman who loves children and animals.” If Match.com gave me a dime for every chick on the web who uses the phrase “live life to the fullest” in her profile, I could make millionaires out of every hooker in Thailand. If the intellectual currency changing hands between suitors on the worldwide web were Monopoly cash, you couldn’t put a house on Mediterranean Avenue. Men—stop posting photos of your car. Ladies—if you’re really as “spontaneous and adventurous” as you say you are, prove it. Tell the next guy who winks at you online to meet you at a Mexican meat market with 50 dollars and a shovel. Buy two dozen hog’s heads and bury them in a shallow grave in your ex-boyfriend’s front yard. And if the winker sent you a photo of his dick, bash his skull in with the bloody shovel. He deserves it.

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