There comes a time in a chronic web surfer’s life where amidst consuming the infinite swarm of YouTube videos, product sites, news stories, Facebook statuses, instagrams, Tumblr posts and blog updates being thrown at you like a barrage of rubber balls during an angry game of elementary school dodgeball, an itch starts to form.

The itch starts out small at first. It begins ever so slight, even subtle, like the tickle of a fresh mosquito bite in the crevice of your back, just out of reach. It could happen on any day of the week, like during a boring Tuesday lunch. You are web surfing, relaxing and enjoying yourself when you feel it. The itch. You can try to ignore it for a while. But soon or later the itch goes from minor annoyance to major problem.

During a relatively benign scroll through a Yahoo article about the pros and cons of bikini lines on tweens, the itch speaks to you.

“Post a comment,” it whispers into your ear.

You shake it off. Not a chance. Only losers spend time wallowing in the festering pig sty of comment section mud. That’s where 14 year old boys go to vent their sexual frustration, where homophobes go to throw verbal feces at perfect strangers, where dreams go to die. The itch, the voice: it’s annoying, but manageable. Obnoxious, but in the end relatively harmless. Like a Jehova’s Witness at your doorstep or Ashton Kutcher acting like an idiot in a PopChips commercial. You forget about it and click through to the next piece of mediocrity on the virtual conveyer belt of online pink slime.

“Psst.”

[click]

A link to an article about chronic fatigue in the workplace. [click] Political blogs ripping your favorite candidate a new asshole. [click] A video of a teenage girl with purple hair dancing in her panties to a shitty Justin Bieber song.

“Leave your thoughts below.”

Just ignore it.

[click] A local comedy group remakes Jersey Shore with anatomically correct sock puppets. [click] Someone dubs audio of the political debates onto clips of South Park’s Mr. Hankey the Christmas Poo.

“Hey!”

It’s nothing.

“Post a comment. In the comment section!”

Shut it out.

[click] Bikini babes reenacting the Han/Greedo scene from Star Wars [click] A new study claims Sesame Street has a bias towards [click] “Is easy access to online porn causing our children to…” [click] Violence against women in Yemen increases…

“Post A COMMENT, DAMNIT!”

No, resist it. You must.

[click]  Cute animal being tickled by [click] Big Celebrity got a handjob from [click] New outrage about the president’s [click] Funny autocorrects that [click] A monkey poops on [click] A new poll states [click]

“WILL YOU POST A MOTHERFUCKING COMMENT ALREADY?”

You can’t bear it any longer.

The urge wells up inside you. The dam bursts, you scratch that itch, succumb to it. You do a full on, belly flop into the La Brea Tar Pits, the kind of flop that makes your belly button lint explode out of your asshole from the power of the impact.

You post an online comment. 

One is all it takes to start an avalanche. For the rest of the day, the comments flow out of you and onto websites like a transcription of perilous phantoms from a parallel dimension. Your life becomes a demented Field of Dreams, where instead of the voice being benevolent force in the universe trying to reunite you with your dead father, it’s a fire-breathing succubus born from an oozing, puss-infested polyp on the smoldering anus of the Lord of Darkness himself bringing dark rain clouds of pain and malevolence to you and your online victims.

“That’s stupid.” “I hate this.” “You suck.” “What a piece of garbage.” “LAME.”

Wait a second, this is actually fun. This feels good, in a laughing-at-the-ice-skater-for-falling-on-her-ass-during-the-triple-lutz kind of way. The internet provides you a chance to say literally anything to anyone. You can type out all the junk you hold back from saying in the real world, and nobody can call you on it. In fact, for some reason it seems to be accepted, even encouraged. This is the forbidden fruit of schadenfreude, and you lap it up like mother’s milk.

“What a waste of time.” “You don’t like it, move to Guam, loser.” “Kiss my ass, shithead.” “Shut up, fucker.”

Wow. What a rush! You realize that you can type the most despicable opinions, and nobody scolds you. You can write the kind of stuff that would make Sharpie-wielding Tourette’s patients scrawling dirty pictures on Texas truck stop bathroom stalls blush. Best of all, nobody will ever know it was you! You become an addict; anonymity is your heroin, the lack of consequences your high. So you up the ante. Up the dosage. Your attacks become more targeted, more personal, more profane.

“Tan Mom can suck my sweaty balls!” 
“Megan McCain’s pussy smells like garbage truck full of baby diapers!” 
“Obama likes to suck Biden’s stinky old-man cock!”

Now you’ve turned a corner. You’ve glimpsed behind the Wizard’s curtain. My GOD the freedom. How did you ever live before this? How did anyone live before they could post comments? Hate becomes your only sustenance. You scratch even deeper, start clicking on links you know you’ll despise, aiming your vicious barbs at everyday people, kids, neighbors, brothers, aunts and grandpas, non-celebrities taking a risk by putting themselves out there only to be devoured whole by the ravenous hate-beast growing inside you like a monolithic tapeworm from the desert landscape of Dune.

A video of a 12-year old autistic kid’s piano recital. “Awful. Talentless hack.”

A mother’s film review of The Vow. “What stupid bitch would think this bullshit is good?”

A blog devoted to political views you can’t stand. “Your minds have all been eaten away by syphilis if you believe this tripe!”

A video of a local production of Swan Lake. “What a bunch of homos! YOU’RE ALL HOMOS!”

It’s too easy now. You are the King of Captcha. Your fingers are miniature M2 Brownings rat-a-tat tatting armor-piercing turds to every nook and cranny of the world wide web. You seek mediocrity out just to hate it, set up fake accounts with fake usernames to shroud the filth you puke on everything, spellcheck like a Scripps champion, troll like your life was in the balance. It’s a hostile takeover of your soul. You are a marionette, controlled by a meth-addled Hitler performing a demented Punch & Judy show at a Renaissance festival sponsored by the KKK. Words you didn’t even know you had in you suddenly erupt from your eager fingertips, the most hurtful words imaginable. The words glow malevolently, blackened magma so hot your keyboard melts as you type them:

“WETBACK!”

“CUNT!”

“FAGGOT!”

“NIIIGGGGGER!”

This is freedom! This is liberty!

You can’t stop it. It’s too easy, to simple. The Snowball Effect incarnate. You have become addicted to hate you don’t even believe in. It’s second nature now; you are a virtuoso of filth. You are a conduit for all the ugliness of humanity, assimilated into the Borg of Online Anathema. You are Mozart and animosity is your symphonic tour de force. You are a physical manifestation of rage, a prophet to the Gods of Hate, scream-preaching the Gospel of Revulsion into internet Winds of Fury!!!!!

But wait.
A distant murmur. Muffled, indistinct.
You snap back into reality.
You hear the ticking of the clock on the wall.
Well, would you look at that?
Lunch break is over.

Time to get back to work.
Those TPS reports aren’t going to fill themselves out, you know.

You click the exit button on your glowing screen, look up from your phone and squint over at the other poor souls with you in the employee lounge. You wave to Tommy, the gay administrative assistant, Susanna the sweet, middle-aged latina lady from human resources, and make eye contact with Derrick, that nice African-American gentleman who works in accounts receivable. He smiles at you. You smile back. Derrick’s a nice enough guy, and you get along well with him. But he doesn’t know what you just typed. He’ll never know your secret identity. He’ll never know the power you now yield.

None of them will. You gently slurp on the Lemon Zinger in your mug. Oh sure, you’ll be nice to them in person. You’ll go through the motions, maintain the decorum in “real life”. But this world is not reality for you any longer. They’ll never understand, and you couldn’t explain it to them if you wanted to. And you don’t want to. The bland, antiseptic walls of your day job cannot hold you back from your destiny. You are a dark traveller now. Everything must be trivialized. Deconstructed. Everyone must be put in their place. And you are the one to do it. You’re the only one who can balance the humors. You are Gozer the Destructor and you wield your judgment mercilessly. Woe to those who dare to do or say anything, ever and dare to put it on the internet for all to see.

Because if people say or do anything, ever…

They’re asking for it.

——-

(Comment below.)

No, Jessica Simpson! Stop! Don’t do that to your baby!

Project Runaway
Homeless teens are lured into an abandoned warehouse with the promise of giving them gobs of free meth, but are instead given makeovers to look like Steve Buscemi in drag.

America’s Next Topless Model
Desperate women down on their luck answer a Craigslist ad for “model work”, and are offered three Twizzlers and a coupon for half-off at Pinkberry to take their shirts off for a Herman Cain impersonator.

The Amazing Racist
White supremacists and the KKK compete in a series of events including naked Twister and Candyland to decide once and for all who is the grandest wizard of the Aryan brotherhood.

Marry, Fuck, Kill a Kardashian
Contestants pick three random people from the Kardashian family and have to marry one of them, make love to the second, and murder the third on national television.

Extreme Makeover: Gnome Edition
Randomly selected midgets from St. Patrick’s Day car dealership commercial auditions are given leg, arm and penis lengthening surgeries so they’re no longer short little freaks.

My Big, Fat Gay Wedding
A group of overweight religious conservatives compete to lose weight, but whoever loses the least at the end of the season has to get married to an intoxicated Bruce Vilanch in full-on Edna drag from Hairspray.

Real Cellwives of San Quentin
A documentary-style journey chronicling the everyday squabbling and drama of “fresh fish” as the inmates decide who has the softest lips, curviest hips and who will squeal like a pig when “daddy comes home.”

Still Better Than the Star Wars Christmas Special
Star Wars fan boys compete in a jerk-off contest while wearing authentic storm trooper costumes and whoever shoots their jizz the furthest gets to lick Cherry Garcia ice cream off of  George Lucas’s frog chin while he adds CGI scenes of Jar Jar Binks’ kids to The Empire Strikes Back.

So You Think You Have Herpes?
Contestants sleep with a babbling, drug-addled, mascara-smeared Lindsay Lohan and then compete in an Irish-stepdance-off to win a bottle of Valtrex.

The Snoop Dogg Whisperer
A group of middle-aged, midwestern soccer moms compete for the affections of a world famous rapper by slingin’ dope, taking part in gang-style shootings, and droppin’ it like it’s hot at da’ club.  

Dancing With the SARS
D-List celebrities are forced to make out with a bunch of people with pneumonia from third world countries, then six week later perform the Cha-Cha with the cast of How I Met Your Mother.

You have the right to remain sexy. Anything you say or do will be used…to turn me on. 

Some pickup lines I’ve been tinkering with. Feel free to try them out at your local bodega/yacht club/PTA meeting and send me your results!

Are you wearing space pants? Because I want to have sex with you really badly in outer space and special pants are likely required to avoid suffocation.

Can I check your tag? I want to see if you were made in Taiwan as I only date asians.

You remind me of a girl I used to date. But don’t worry, she’s dead now.

There must be something wrong with my eyes, I can’t take them off you, specifically your tits.

Screw me if I’m wrong, but isn’t the capital of New Mexico Albuquerque?

Can I borrow a quarter? I told my mom I’d call her when I met the woman who would sleep with me to stop me from committing suicide.

Your feet must be tired, because you’ve been running through my mind all night, trying to avoid my swinging axe.

I must be asleep because when I look at you I get nocturnal emissions.

Your face looks familiar. Have you ever been on To Catch a Predator? I think I met you once before on that show years ago.

I may not be Fred Flinstone, but I can sure make your “Barney Rubble.”

Are you from Tennessee? Because you’re the only “Ten I See” that sounds like an uneducated, backwater hick.

Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I blind you with this acid before I tell you I’m Ryan Gosling?

Do you have a map? Because I got lost in your eyes and also I’m too lazy to use Google maps.

Excuse me, do you have any Irish in you? If not, would you like to have my penis, which is Irish, in you? Also, my fingers and tongue are Irish because I’m Irish.

I’m not ashamed to admit that over my life I’ve taken some jobs I’m not proud of. But you don’t need to take a trip to the Burlington Coat Factory every weekend to know there’s something wrong with America when Lady Gaga can wear a thong bikini made of soggy rainbow trout and nobody blinks an eye, but a jacket like me can’t make one political ad without it haunting its collar forever. 

I mean, Rick Perry is just one of tons of gigs I’ve had over the years. Yes, Sarah Palin wore me once or twice, and there might be a picture of me on George W. Bush during a visit from Tony Blair. But I have a long list of way more impressive clients on my resume. Jean Claude Van Damme wore me to the premiere of Maximum Risk in 96’. It was pretty sweet. Bob Barker has donned me on several trips to the Golden Corral for the early bird special. Their cornbread is delicious. And I once spent a glorious evening on a prestigious coat rack in the Viper Room snuggling up close to Johnny Depp’s faux suede jacket which smelled of French cigarettes and tulips. Ahhhhh.

Heath Ledger even wore me in Brokeback Mountain! Ironic, huh? I reveled in hugging Heath’s chiseled, firm shoulders and masculine, toned pectorals take after take on the set. Being associated with that Oscar nominated film was the highlight of my career. But Rick Perry’s shoulders? Yuck. They were made of middle-aged gelatinous goo. His weird, cashew shaped nipples poked at me and I swear his armpits were filled with some kind of congealed cottage cheese that stuck to me like horse shit on a cowboy boot. Totally not making that up. At all. 

So please don’t hold Perry’s campaign ad against me. I’m not a bigot. I’m just a jacket who believes in our country. A hard working jacket like any other jacket in your closet (or out of the closet! Hey-oh!) Even though sometimes I’m donned as anti-gay apparel, that doesn’t reflect my own personal views. I would never insist that all those suiting up in a poncho should be deported to Mexico, or anyone wearing a pink pleather jacket shouldn’t be able to marry another pink pleather jacket lover any day of the week. That would be un-American.  

Just because Rick Perry is a first class douche nozzle doesn’t mean his clothes are too. If you allow me to be your jacket, I’ll fight against attacks on hard working gay and straight jacketed folk such as yourself. Patriotic Americans who want to wear their trench coats, parkas, dinner jackets, tailcoats, smoking jackets, cocoon coats, toggle coats, cape coats, chesterfields and frocks in peace without being judged for who they bang like a rhesus monkey in heat after they take us off. 

I am Rick Perry’s Jacket and I approve this message. 

The world is a challenging place. Every day we must make our way through life while often facing impossible odds. Here are a few life-affirming teachings to inspire your inner spirit and gently nudge you towards true enlightenment. They will guide you down the path of righteousness and ensure your life-force is chock-full of goodness and wisdom:

• Never let anyone tell you that you can’t do something. You can do anything if you put your mind to it. So levitate those empanadas with your mind.

• The first time you meet someone, don’t judge them by their appearance. Wait and get to know them first, then judge them by whether or not they agree to give you a blowjob.

• It’s wrong to hate somebody because of the color of their skin. But it is perfectly acceptable to hate them for their love of Twilight.

• If a relationship ends badly, it’s okay to miss them for awhile. Eventually, one day you won’t miss them any more. That’s when you back up the car and flee the scene as quickly as possible.

• If it’s a particularly clear night, take a moment to gaze up at the stars in awe at the vast glories of the cosmos. Then get right back to Angry Birds, those bastard pigs have it coming.

• When you are feeling depressed and alone in the world, remember that there are always a few people thinking fondly about you at this very moment. And at least one of them is thinking about you without wearing pants

• Take a moment every day to take in the sights, the sounds, the smells that help create your world. Savor them and let them become a part of who you are, unless you live by the bus station, then it probably looks like a prison yard and smells like rancid goat piss.

• The best way to ensure healthy lifestyle is to take care of yourself. Treat your body like a temple: constantly filled with guys who have circumcised penises.

• Life is a learning experience; don’t be afraid to make mistakes. Through your mistakes you improve yourself and reach goals, like finally finishing the suit of flesh you’ve been working on for years.

• Believe in yourself. Also, believe in an omnipotent, all-powerful invisible man in the sky who controls your eternal soul and can see you when you walk around your apartment naked eating Krispy Kremes.

• Success is 1% inspiration, 99% perspiration. You must also give 110% effort. The extra 10% is mostly cheating and ass-kissing.

• Release your mind from anger and negativity. Fill your mind with only peaceful thoughts, and fill your butt with whatever makes your butt happy.

• Try to be more compassionate in your everyday life, especially to strangers. Empathize with their needs in the moment, at least until they’re finished with your order to put the money in the bag.

• Lift up your spirit today by performing a random act of kindness for a total stranger. But keep treating your family like shit because they’re a bunch of depraved cretins.

• An important part of healthy relationships is to build a high level of mutual respect, as well as deciding on a safe word for when the neighbors come over for the orgy.

• Examine the motivations behind your actions. Do they come from a place of love and compassion? If so, why are you being such a pussy?

• If you are unsatisfied with your life, you will never find true happiness until you find peace within yourself. Or you are able to buy a cool ass Wave Runner, whichever comes first.

• You will find serenity and fulfillment if you devote yourself to the needs of others. That way you won’t regret answering the Craigslist ad seeking a caged gimp for a basement dungeon.

• Don’t forget, today is the first day of the rest of your life! Too bad the rest of your life is only three more days. Sorry.

http://www.markreiley.com/2011/11/dailymeditations/

The Conrad Murray trial has truly been a Thriller. And although the result is far from Black or White and could be Bad, you Got to Be There when the jury convenes. Conrad Murray is in quite a Jam. Prosecuters painted him as a Smooth Criminal, but the defense claimed it was just Human Nature. Supporters have told him, “You Are Not Alone,” while detractors insist he Beat It. Years from now people will ask each other if they Remember the Time the verdict was read, and if afterward they were in a State of Shock. Either way, this trial has been Off the Wall.

Life is a dyslexic asshole.