Today, the Angry Czeck is 80% stomach. Yesterday, he could not wait to miss “Don’t Mess With The Zohan.” Before that, he enjoyed the Greek food fest even though he is 1/8 Trojan.
Please. Somebody save me.
I’m addicted to Facebook™. Every morning, like a heroin addict hunched over a mini-Bic and a bent spoon, the Angry Czeck dutifully updates his status. He searches the crevices and folds of his abnormally huge brain for lost pieces of witty insight. He wishes he was the first to come with “Angry Czeck is is.”
It’s killing me.
It’s not enough just to check some friend updates and post a note on The Wall. Not when I must tend to my apps, like Bar Fight, which is moderately amusing in its conception but essentially mindless in execution. Somehow, I’ve recruited 21 people to join my pub. Why in the fuck do I have a pub?
Because I am sick.
I made Facebook my browser’s homepage, making the act of Facebooking a prerequisite to surfing the Internet. Look! Bruce changed his profile picture! I’ve been invited to plant a daisy! Jennifer discovered her favorite sex position! It’s Kevin’s birthday today, and some guy who is friends with a girl that was in my third-grade class wants to be my friend!
I feel my neural transmitters plugging into the collective hive, one by one.
Like a man addicted to tobacco, I zealously recruit more victims into the fold. “You got to be on Facebook, man! That’s how I connect!” I sneer at the dolts who decline beneath the auspice of protecting their precious privacy. Feh! You just don’t get it, man.
I am a fan of Toast
Yes, toast. It has a fan page. So does Sponge Bob, of whom I am also a fan. What else? Overton Park. The Madison Hotel. G-Force. Meineke. Rotofugi. Benjamin Franklin. Barack Obama. Rock the Vote. The Little Rock Film Festival. Seinfeld. NPR. House. The Watchmen. Boondogs.
And the Angry Czeck. I am a fan of myself.
Mrs. Angry attended a birthday party with Angry Junior the other weekend. One of the attendees told her that “The Angry Czeck is a big Facebooker.” What does that mean?
Facebook’s new instant messaging (Facing?) is the secret fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse. He rides in crazy zigzagging patterns, drawing attention to himself as billions of billable hours waste away unused inside the ether. “You’re here all the time!” observes one Facer. I immediately switch my status to “offline.”
The Angry Czeck is no stranger to Web-related addictions. I ripped out ten posts my first month on Blogspot™. During football season, I stick a USB plug into my cerebellum so I can instantly download useful fantasy football tips. I pounce on every email. I absorb CNN.com like, I don’t know, something that absorbs things. I stagger into walls and scream profanities at nuns when my Internet connection is down.
Yet, this infatuation with Facebook feels different – a willing and buxom breast that doesn’t mind a long but tender squeeze. An acceptance of your Friend Request is satisfying validation. Destroying a pal on Bar Fight makes the day pass quicker. Leafing through a coworker’s photo album borders on creepy, but you figure that they are doing the same to you. It’s okay. Peek.