Internet Personas work better than any psychologist

The Internet has connected the world (take that, Nokia!), it must be said.  We are living in an age where we can talk to a bunch of people we’ve never met before… and then be scarred for life when we find out that the 19 year old blonde from Los Angeles is actually a 57 year old trucker from Alabama.

But in this day and age, can we really be sure we know who we’re talking to?  We can now, thanks to the FTD psychological catalogue of random internet people!

The World of Warcraft nut

Typical expressions: “I’m a level 22 paladin!  I’ve slain the beast of Murgoth, drunk the broth of Ardenfell and seduced the virgin of Brixton!”

What they’re actually trying to say: “I’m in my twenties, unemployed and have carpal tunnel syndrome from the endless hours I play WoW pretending I’m someone important.”

These people generally have no friends and try to escape from their mundane life of… mundaneness (It’s a word now, you bastards) by adopting their in game persona in the hope that hot chicks dig overweight guys who play video games for 17 hours a day.  Losing your virginity is just around the corner, guys!  All you need to do is complete that final quest…

The Internet Tough Guy

Typical expressions: “O yea?! I cud kik ur ass!  Meet me in teh park at 9pm and we’ll settle this liek man!”

What they’re actually trying to say: “I use stereotypical male agression to hide the fact that I have a very small penis”.

Typical hang-outs: Chat rooms, forums and 4chan

The Internet Tough Guy tends to use expressions and threats with homosexual undertones, I.E. “You’ll think you’ve been fucked in the ass by a rhino when I’m finished with you”.  Be advised, actually pointing this out to them tends to provoke accusations of homosexuality; “Don’t be a fag!”  Oh, and that meeting at the park?  Don’t bother turning up.  They won’t.

The Internet Hussy/Lothario

Typical expressions: “Hai, let’s get together and I will rock ur world, baby”

What they’re actually trying to say: “I make up for my extreme loneliness by fucking anything with a pulse”

Usual hang-outs: Craigslist, Ebaumsworld, Myspace

The Internet Hussy/Lothario models his/herself after the popular MTV duo Beavis and Butthead, using phrases such as “hey, baby”, “hur hur hur” and “we can score”.  They typically send their victims photos of Jessica Simpson or Britney Spears (before she went batshit) with their heads badly photoshopped on.  Be aware, chatting to them runs the risk of STDs being transmitted through your internet modem.

The UFO/Ghost/Spiritualist nut

Typical expressions: “ZOMG I saw a ghost/UFO last night!  They took me aboard their spaceship and probed me!” or “I was a high ranking egyptian priestess in a past life!”

What they actually mean: “I live a tedious life in the suburbs and make up these stories to feel important and unique”

Typical hang-outs: Every fucking forum that has ever existed.

The UFO/ghost nuts are typically gullible bastards who’ll believe anything you tell them.  Of course, they deny that they’re crazy as shit.  The best way to get rid of a past life fanatic is by telling them that you have also had a past life experience.  You were a villager named Dougie who had no significant importance and lived a long, fruitless life in a 14th century English village somewhere near Hastings.  Or, failing that, you were Richard Nixon.

The right-wing blogger

Typical expressions: “An army of communist hippie UFO squirrels killed JFK!”

What they’re actually trying to say: “Pay attention to me.  I have no friends.”

Typical hangouts: Ebaums world, forums, news sites.

The right-wing blogger will spurriously deny any accusations of racism, justifying their love for all races and creeds by saying “I’m not racist! I love foreigners, I just don’t want them living next to me!”.  They generally have no proof for their political theories, and an argument with them will quickly degrade into childish name calling and death threats.  Politics do indeed make strange bedfellows.

The liberal blogger

Typical expressions: “Chaaaaaaaange!”

What they’re actually trying to say: “I am a tool, a tool, a dirty, thoughtless tool.”

Typical hangouts: Everywhere and nowhere, maaaaan.

On the internet, “liberal” is usually a term that denotes anybody to the left of Pat Buchanan.  Many of these people usually have no clue what they’re supporting, claiming it’s part of the “greater good”.  Internet liberals outside of the US have a habit of telling everybody to vote for Obama, regardless of the fact they can’t vote for him themselves.  They usually don’t care about politics inside their own country.  Kill them with fire.

Take that, Internet!

J.

On the road again…

Ehn.  Life seems to be constantly throwing shit at me at the moment.  Still no internet.  Whoop-de-fucking-doo.  I mean seriously, how hard can it be for them to put it back on?  I paid their money, so why? It means I can’t keep up with current events, keep up with friends.   Fuck human contact, something’s not worth saying if you don’t let everyone know about it on Facebook first!  Fuck whether or not I’m concerned, or whether I deserve to know!

Christ, I need beer.  Good news is, my Italian orals went alright.  And that’s just about the only good news I have.  In the mean time, check out this shiny new piece of fiction I recently wrote.  Ooh, shiny.

—

The twitchy little man opposite me looked as if he was about to explode with fear.  Strange little bugger; balding, portly and sweating profusely.
But where are my manners?  Let me introduce myself.  My name isn’t particularly important, it’s what I do that sets me apart from most.  I’m a come-to man.  People want to spill their guts and I listen to them, for a price of course.  Think of it as the poor man’s confession.  People can’t face talking about all the nasty shit they’ve done to a priest, so they come to me.  My silence is guaranteed; what they tell me doesn’t leave the room or my mouth.  Oh, I’ve met some real bastards before: serial killers, thieves, rapists… Whoever manages to get ahold of me, which is an achievement in itself.
Anyways, back to the story at hand.  The guy was fumbling, wringing his hands and looking around the pub as if he was afraid someone was going to hear him.  In truth; it was complete bollocks: anybody in that pub knows to keep to their own fucking business when I’m about with a client.
The man started to speak.
“Hang on, money first, mate,” I said.  Always best to get down to business first, right?  The client slipped a couple of hundred across the table and I pocketed it.  Business concluded.  I motioned for him to begin.
“I’ve done some… terrible things,” he said.  He was sweating even more now, “Such terrible things… I’ve harmed so many people and I really have to ask myself if I’m going to hell for it all.”  Ah, the religious types.  Gotta love them.  They’re usually the sort who think that getting your dog to crap on your neighbour’s yard instead of your own is going to guarantee you a direct ticket to Hell.  Does God exist?  Fucked if I know, but the fear of God sure as hell wets my pocket.
“Go on, don’t be shy.  Sarah told you the deal, I’ll keep my lips zipped,” I said reassuringly.  He fumbled for a minute longer and started again.
“Well, I don’t know where to begin… The first time I can recall is in the summer of ’85 when I shagged that hooker the week after I got married.  See, I’d always been tempted by that sort of stuff… But when I married Angie… well, things just seemed to be so much better.  She brightened up my whole miserable sodding life, didn’t she?  But the honeymoon was…uneventful.  A quicky and then to bed.  It wasn’t what I wanted, it wasn’t what I needed.  So I went cruising for some action.”

He went on and on.  Pretty horrible shit, actually.  We were there for the best part of four hours.  He talked about the women he’d slept with, the kid he’d fondled (he insisted it was only for a minute or two), the money he’d embezzeled.  I was used to it, so I was unfazed.
“I’m going to have to ask you for a surcharge, mate.  That’s four sodding hours we’ve been here.”
“Oh, of course… How much?”
“Couple of hundred more should do it,” he slipped more money across the table.  He wasn’t sweating anymore.  I suppose confession’s good for the soul, innit?  I got up to leave, but he grabbed my sleeve.
“I have a question for you,” he said.
“Sorry, mate.  Doesn’t work that way.”
“Come on.  Indulge me.”  I sighed and sat back down.
“Go on, then.”
“Why do you do this?”
“Can’t say I’ve really thought about it.  Why do I profit from letting little shits like you spill the beans on all the shit they’ve done?  Peace of mind?  No.  Hell, it sure as hell makes you feel better on the inside, but you’re still guilty as fuck, regardless of what you’ve done.  So I’m offering a service which is of no use to you whatsoever, because your actions are going to catch up with you some day.”
“Bollocks.”
“Is it really?  You remember the Walthamstowe Strangler?”  His eyes widened, looking at me.
“Yeah?”
“He came to me, spilled everything.  He walked off thinking he’d been absolved but still got caught in the act strangling a 5 year old kid, didn’t he?  Just because you tell me all your little problems and worries doesn’t mean you’re saved. Maybe that’s the most satisfying thing of all.  Now fuck off and leave me alone.”
He got up and left the pub.  I walked over to the bar and bought another pint.  Sarah brought it to me and I took a long gulp.  The elixyr of mortal men, I tell you.
“He was a talker”, she said.
“Aye, the minor ones always are.”
“Don’t you ever get the urge to report that shite to the police?”
“Heh.  Who says I haven’t?” I grinned, “I’m off, love.  Same time tomorrow.”  I put on my coat and walked out the pub.  The late evening rain felt fresh upon my skin.  Then, suddenly, a rib crushing blow lifted me off my feet and smacked me into the pavement.  The last thing I heard before I blacked out was a man’s voice, vaguely familiar.
“You were right, you know.  Your actions will catch up with you some day,” the voice said.

Does Hell really exist?  Fucked if I know, but I’m about to find out.

An interesting turn of events

If you’re a regular reader of this blog, you might remember a few posts back where I responded to a rather funny and somewhat silly comment from a supporter of PETA:

You should be strung up and shot for eating meat!

Now, while the comment in itself may look like a death threat, I don’t feel particularily threatened.  Just amused. Especially by the fact that the person who wrote the comment decided to leave her email address on the site.  Oh yes, delkhazragi@hotmail.co.uk.  When you leave a comment on FTD and leave a valid email address, it becomes oh so simple to find out just who the hell you are.  So I subscribed the commenter to a wonderful monthly newsletter about the meat industry and let sleeping dogs lie.

What I wasn’t counting on, however, was that a regular reader to the blog would actually find out who the commenter was/is.  Then again, who could have predicted that typing delkhazragi@hotmail.co.uk into google would yield up such results.  Of course, FTD was the first result.  Ahem!  But more interesting was an article from Our Dogs Newspaper actually on the commenter in question!

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Dina Kazraghi; Virgin flight attendant and animal lover extraordinaire.  Okay, okay.  To be fair, her saving that dog in New Delhi (in 2002 according to ODN) was a cool move.  Of course, she didn’t bother taking her time to save the thousands of starving children there, but still. No good deed goes unrewarded I suppose.  I guess her act of compassion just confused me, considering she advocated my murder on a public blog.  I hope for her sake that it was only meant in jest.

Now Dina.  Yes, you. If indeed you do end up reading this blog post, I’d like to make some things very, very clear to you.  The internet is a very powerful tool, and if you piss someone off chances are that they will find out a way to make your life a misery.  Knowing your email address, name and the fact that you work with Virgin Airlines gives me something of an upper hand.  I could very easily contact VA and tell them who you are and what you wrote on FTD.  That could lead to you being sacked.

But I believe that in this modern economic climate, everybody needs to hold onto whatever job you can get.  Even if that’s being an airhead flight hostess who doesn’t realise the human race is omnivorous.  I’m going to be surprisingly merciful and not contact your employees.  You may argue that me posting up your name, email address and employer on a public blog is an unfair breach of your personal privacy. I say bollocks.  You send the abusive comments and you forego any and all rights to privacy on this fucking blog or anywhere else on teh intarweb.  I’d also be interested in seeing just how commited you are to this premise.  As you’re a flight attendant, if you’re anywhere near Beziers in the south of France before September, feel free to pop in.  You can murder me if you wish, string me up and turn me into J-Nuggets or we can simply have a friendly and moderated discussion that doesn’t involve death threats. Just remember that I am in a position to possibly put you out of a job.

Sleep tight!

J

D-Day 2: Chicago Invades my Fucking School

Eleven in the morning.  A deadly silence fills the courtyard of Henri IV high school in Béziers.  The soldiers garrisoned in the courtyard look around nervously, anticipating the battle ahead.  Some cross themselves, others vomit copiously into their helmets.  Others just sit around and tell fart jokes.  Heh.  Suddenly, a rumble sounds off in the distance.  The soldiers jerk their heads up.  Here it comes.  The big one.  Suddenly, a bus crashes into the reinforced steel portcullis!  It’s a yellow school bus that you see in all those films.  Kindergarten Cop… Uh… And all those other films.  The door swings open and out pours a stream of preppy American students from some far away land!

The brave students of Henri IV try and hold them back, but their inane comments on how “they were really the only people who liked Obama for his policies rather than the fact that he was black” and how “David Letterman just isn’t what he used to be” push our valiant heroes back.  Oh, the blood!  Oh, the mind-numbing dullness!

Like this. But, yanno, with less guns and soldiers and blood and shit.

The main squad is down!  They’ve taken over the school.  The day is lost.  Bummer.

Of course, the above scene was just a dramatic re-imagining of the scene that did greet me in school this morning.  I’m currently in talks with Michael Bay concerning a film adaptation.  But yanno, he wants to put fucking Transformers in it.  Rhy, if you will:

So, yeah, Michael.  Great fan of your work.  I always liked films with shitloads of explosions and shit in them.  So, what kind of ideas do you have for the opening scene?

Well I thought we’d have one of those big friggin’ Harrier jets fly over the school and drop a shitload of fucking napalm on everyone, like yanno, a pre-emptive strike on the school?  It’s be like WHOOSH and everyone would be like AIEE! And the napalm falls like KERBLAMMO! and everbody’s running around on fire screaming and burning.

But… uh… the opening scene is just a simple montage of the beginning of the school day. And… hey, why the fuck would a Harrier jet drop napalm on a school full of children?  I mean, you’re essentially killing off the protagonist in the opening scene.

Yeah, but no, but he’d be like late for school… or whatever… and uh… stay with me on this.  Uh… he’d see all like the burning bodies and drop to his knees and roar.  And uh… he’d like find these survivors and he’d like… yanno, gather them together for a last stand.  And at one point he’d turn around and say “God’s gotta take a back seat on this”.  And you know the Americans would arrive with their oppressive policies and superior technology and the protagonist would be forced to run into the countryside with the survivors and form a rag-tag resistance gr-

Michael, I’m gonna have to stop you there.  That’s kind of like the plotline from Red Dawn.  Just… yanno… Dumber.

Wait, no!  For the closing battle, the ruins of the school turn into Optimus Prime and he beats the shit out of th-

Gonna have to stop you there again, Mike.

Why?

No reason.  I’m just… gonna have to stop you.

A behind-the-scenes photo from back when Michael was still making our film about a typical schoolday.

So we figured we weren’t really getting anywhere with Michael Bay.  The guy had to look up the word “plot” in the dictionary.  Rhy suggested we turn to visionary director Mel Gibson to convey our vision to the world.  We figured his subversive directing would fit our image just perfectly.

Mr Gibson, what an honour!  Can I just say that I loved you in Mad Max.  So what do you think of the script?

Well, uh, Rhy.  Can I be honest?  I think it needs a couple of re-writes.

Oh?  Well, you’d know better than us.  What with you being a world famous director and all.  What didn’t you like?

Well, I… how can I put this?  You know in the fifth scene where the Principal orders the doors to be shut, stopping the smokers from getting out at recess?  We need to make the Principal a Jew.  He needs to be up in his office with a big pot of Jew gold, a massive nose and a wicked chuckle.  I mean this guy is the main antagonist, we really need to show the viewers that he’s part of a world-wide Jewish conspiracy that controls the media and-

Uh… Can we do that?  I mean, legally do that? Wouldn’t Jewish viewers be offended?

Well, they killed Christ.  What do we care?  Oh, and the protagonist of the film has to be Jesus.  And he’s gotta be crucified at the end.

Pro: Béziers is full of homeless who could play Jesus in Mel's re-write. Con: Mel is a fucking nut.

Jesus?  But… what the hell would Jesus be doing in a small town in southern France?  And didn’t you already kind of do that with The Passion?

Mel walked off the set muttering something about a giant pot of Jew gold at the end of the Jewbow.  We were getting nowhere fast.  Was there any director who could properly translate our story of greed, lust and alcohol for the big screen?

Mr Lynch.  Jesus, man.  How are you?

I’m uh… yeah, I’m good.

I gotta say, we love your work here at FTD.  Jesus, we must have watched Eraserhead… god, must be twice now!  Haha!  And wow, you’re like, so down to earth!

Yeah.  I guess so.  Listen, about your script…

Yeah, what did you think of it? Wow, I can’t believe David Lynch is actually checking out our script!

Well, I can see a lot of potential.  I can see a lot of metaphors being able to be slipped into the film.  I was thinking maybe having a subliminal message flash at the viewer through different points in the film.  Like, have “THE CAKE IS A LIE” flashed through at random intervals.  Oh, and we’ve gotta show that the protagonist has repressed sexual urges towards his imaginary uncle who was invented through a subtext of…

He continued like this for a good few hours.  We liked his vision and decided to go with him as our director.  Finally, our film was finished.  Rhy, want to unveil it for us?

Sure.  Ladies and gentlemen!  I present to you the most subversive piece of cinema you’re ever going to see in your pitiful lives!  Oh, and if there are any epileptics in the crowd, you might want to look away.  It didn’t test well with one guy in our test audience.  Now.  I present to you: D-Day 2 as directed by David Lynch!

It's a metaphor you idiots!

Isn’t like… the image supposed to move or something?

Uh… yeah… lemme check the reel.  Wait, they’re all the same image!  For two hours!

And… how does this represent the social problems at school?

Who the fuck cares?  It’s David Lynch, maaaaan!  You don’t have to understand it!  Just go with the flow and talk about “hidden meanings” and shit.  I mean David Lynch is the fucking GOD of ambiguity and jesus, Eraserhead?  That was…

Coming soon to a DVD Bargain Bin near you,

J

My cup runneth over: how Rhy and Napoleon came to be.

Oh, I love these nostalgia visits so much.  For one it’s an excuse to burn up some not-so valuable  spare time.  Then again, I have that shit coming out of my ears.  I suppose I just need to give Rhy and Napoleon some breathing space.

That’s right.  It’s been too long, bitches.  Napoleon’s come out of retirement and I for one was sick of being kept in that duffel bag under your bed.  Metaphorically speaking, yanno.

Ah, ze fraiche ‘er ees good on mah skeen!

A lot of regular readers to this blog might be wondering just who the hell you guys are and how you came to become semi-regular contributors to FTD.

Ahh, ze nostalgia.  How zat tale of ah-camaraderie and schizophrenia brings a tingle to mah spine!

No, that’s just the Alzheimer’s setting in old chap.  Anyway, get on with the story so that it finishes quicker.

Alrighty then.  The year was 2008 and I had just reached the climax of my creative potential.

Meaning your limited creative spurts had just run out and you were getting desperate.

Erm.  Yes. Ah-HEM.  Anyway, I had recently written a piece on Tipper Gore which met to universal acclaim from my peers.  I was looking for something to fill the void.  And that’s when I hit my first recognized minor depressive episode.

And guess who stepped in to fill the void?

I wasn’t and am not schizophrenic.  But I’ve always had a habit of making up conversations for myself.  It’s helped me get the worst of my thoughts out there and properly develop my imagination.  It may sound immature or crazy… But it’s just what I’ve done to cope with the situation I’ve been in.

Vous avez forgot about me.

No, Nap.  I’m just getting to you.  See depressive episodes are difficult to cope with.  First of all, I’ve never been able to properly get through to my parents about this sort of thing.  Not even my mum who’s gone through this sort of thing when I was younger.  It’s always put down to “teenage angst” or shit like that.  But I know it’s not normal for me to feel like this.  I can’t really get into it without going on a long tirade and going completely off subject.  Anyway, Napoleon came about as a manifestation of my frustration with France.

Zat ees whah I am expressed through zees red-eeculous stereotahpe-uh! Sacré Bleu!

I just get annoyed with the country sometimes… My frustrations with many failed relationships, the social situation… I don’t know, it pisses me off sometimes.  So Napoleon and Rhy came along to fill the void.  All of a sudden I found myself becoming more creative and more optimistic about life.

We gave your creativity a kick in the ass!

Yes, you did.  You bastards, you.

And so what’s our future?

I don’t rightly know.  Due to recent and somewhat unfortunate circumstances concerning my personal life, I feel as if I may be slipping into yet another minor depressive episode.  Whether or not Napoleon and Rhy will help me through this is unknown.  I fear that my apathy might take hold once again and my creativity and spontaneous schizophrenic dialogues may dry up entirely.

So we’ll be put into that fucking duffel bag again?

Perhaps.

Motherfucker.

Fils de pute!  Ah weel not be treated lahk ze Man in ze Iron Mask!

Or in this case, the imaginary man in the Marché Plus plastic bag.

Do not turn mah words against me, Rhy!  Remember Napoleon’s campaign of Russia!  Remember Trafalgar!

What, where Napoleon got his ass kicked?

Sacré Bleu!  Nom de Dieu!  Sainte Marie!…

Oh, this may take a while folks.

Till next time,

J