Ninety percent of everything is shit.
Spread the word. Tell your friends. Get the tinfoil hats ready.
So, this column shit. Does anyone ever read these? Can the 200,000 future cement mixers that linger around on QuakeNet actually comprehend an entire sentence without resorting to self-mutilation?
Well, I have absolutely nothing better to do right now.
Has anyone viewed the American documentary "Super Size Me"? It's pretty ill- concieved. The gimmick is, of course, some deprived soul has decided, for some twisted reason, to live off of McDonalds' fast-food for 30 days, eating nothing but, sampling everything once, accepting offers to be "super sized". The documentary, while touching ever-so-briefly on things that are actually interesting, maintains its focus on the 30-day long fast. We're treated to fascinating telephone exchanges between the writer/director/eater and his girlfriend, his mother, his Doctor (Clearly being paid to over-dramatise his "findings"). It concludes, at the end, that if you do what this misguided individual did, that you will not be as healthy as you were before you started. You may even end up psychologically altered to depend on it like a drug.
Is this news to anyone? That if you suddenly force-feed yourself some mass- produced product of corporate necrophilia for 30 days solid, made from things that barely qualify as animals, processed to the point that it could resemble liquified ANYTHING, that your health will degrade? Perhaps to some Americans who, inspite wearing size 400 pants, still frequent the local McDonalds for their daily McHeartdisease, they don't seem to have made that connection yet. The documentary actually made some size comparisons between various sizes of McDonalds' food/drink, and say, the Universe. It would not be at all surprising if, upon seeing a normal un-"super sized" human being walk through the doors, the McFattys shed a single tear for this unfortunate individual who obviously is near death, being unable to completely finish an entire cow in one sitting. A documentary called "Normal Size Me" where one of these things forklifts his ass around America for 30 days eating nothing but lettuce would be a hit.
Of course, at the end of it all, the bottom line is that people are just sick and twisted enough to want to see what someone will look like after 30 days of the above, the gimmick will certainly make someone some dough. As if the physical state of most American McDonalds workers wouldn't permanently put you off of the torrents of diahorrea that fill their multi-story chip cartons, particularly when these individuals ask you if you want to be "super sized". The expression takes on a whole new meaning: What you are really being asked, is "Would you would like to be fat bastardised".
But enough about that. Lets talk about users. I'm sure we've all seen them. Not unlike spotting a rat's faece mere days after having your entire house fumigated to exterminate the little fuckers. They puzzle me. Even more than an intelligent human being actually finding QuakeNet a desirable place to stage a conversation, they confuse me by actually caring about it all. All the Q flags, bans, little sentences perforated by Internet gibberish that almost completely extinguish the message's meaning, they act as if it's all perfectly normal. Let's take an example:
User: say bi 2 ur bnc bitch!
Is this supposed to strike fear into the heart of the poor, unfortunate recipient? I followed the instructions to the letter, but nothing ever happened as was implied in the message. Disappointing. If you ran this particular line of text past any post-infant human being who wasn't already aware that QuakeNet users are generally dimmer than your average human, he'd probably think it was a foreign language. If, however, you were kind enough to explain to him exactly what the meaning was behind it, the resulting reaction would probably be uproarious laughter. The mere thought of a person sitting like the Hunchback of Frankfurt over a keyboard in a dark room, actually flattering someone by devoting his own personal time to their existence on an Internet chat server... you cannot help but to crack a smile at how misguided the entire scene would be.
So now you're happy that you've amused this person, you want to go further enhance your credibility by making him laugh even more. You need look no further than the three letters D, O and S. These letters are the ultimate expression of the child-like psychological dependency on the Internet. Assemble them in this fashion: DDoS, and it suddenly becomes clear. Let's imagine another scene:
The hunchback, dissatisfied with clogging up a computer's Internet connection with 1s and 0s, unaware that the computer user has long since left to seek entertainment from the television, has dreams of having an entire army of beige-coloured metal boxes at his command to fuel the power wielded by his Internet identity, BigBoy2004. "Noone", he silently thinks to himself, "will ever mess with BigBoy2004". By this point, it's turned into more of an underground contest with other hunchbacks, to see who is the Greatest of them All. They are all armed with hundreds, if not thousands, of beige metal boxes, all producing in mass Internet-crushing 1s and 0s. All it takes is for one to show a sign of weakness infront of the rest, weakness that will indicate that he has less beige boxes than the rest. Upon learning this, he will be killed, his smouldering remains liquified, and mounted in a plastic bottle representative of another "win" for BigBoy2004. The label will be peeled off, because BigBoy2004 could expose a similar weakness, in the form of "Robinson's No Added Sugar Orange Juice" being written on the bottle. No, the bottle's identity is kept secret. This is Death Valley.
Indeed, for a normal human being who accidentally falls into the oversized rabbit hole and ends up on QuakeNet, it would remind them that their life isn't really so bad. Surrounded by "things", making surreal noises at one another that he cannot understand, fighting for the mysterious "+n". It's reassuring.
Anyway, that's all I can be bothered typing.