Search for intelligent life in the universe - or a lawn dwarf rectum. Whichever.
04.10.2004
Over hundreds, thousands, of years, some of the greatest minds known to humanity have struggled to encapsulate the true nature of self. Yet nothing, no religious doctrine or philosophical school of thought, truly seemed to capture our fickle character, our great creativity, selfishness, sexuality, benevolence, quirkiness, and stupidity in a truly satisfying manner.
Until now.
No, a new prophet was not born into the world. No great philosopher exists among us. The nature of the human spirit was not revealed to us through the words of any great orator. Oh no, the true nature of humanity is distilled in one of the greatest inventions known to man:
Google hits.
I am fascinated by the Google hit. Every day, whether I write something new or not, I rush to the computer to reveal the newest facet of humanity disguised in a search phrase. What's more, it reveals my innermost, deepest core being as well as those around me, because those search phrases have led someone, some individual previously unknown but unconsciously bonded to me, to words that I have written, that came out of my brain. All I can say in my stunned awe at the power of this cybernetic soothsayer is this:
You are all very, very twisted. Fortunately, so am I. I feel so at home.
The great characteristic about the internet search is that, like the inside of a car, it gives the person behind the wheel a false sense of privacy and isolation. There's nothing quite so entertaining as stopping at a red light, looking over into your neighbour's SUV, and witnessing a whitebread, straightlaced three-piece suit gittin' down to 50 Cent on the radio. Yo mama. Or having a very animated conversation with their dashboard, no cell phone in sight. We feel safe in our aloneness, and so let our hair, among other things, down. Socrates never stood a chance without a tool like this. He could never truly get an accurate snapshot (or oil painting, in his case) of the throbbing, shadowy sprites that live in our frontal lobes. He would never have the opportunity to know that, living next door to him, there was a middle-aged married father of six thinking to himself, Here I am, naked at my desk in my bedroom, eating a mango while soaking my feet in urine (I've heard it cures athlete's foot), and I'm going to do a search for "polygamous goat lovers". What's the harm? No one will know. I am free, I say! Free to be me! Let the beastial pornography begin!
While there are many individuals who get seriously uptight about this invasion of privacy, I welcome it. It's about bloody time that the Southern Baptist organ player and church accountant let us all know that she too dreams of getting naked in a bathtub full of cherry pie filling. No one will ever truly get an inferiority complex if only they knew what really goes on in the minds of every single human being on the planet. Every single one. No, no -- don't bother shaking your head. I know you do. I have the search referrals to prove it.
fetish mask respirator. I'll start with the tamest one first.
This is your typical fetish-wear DBSM search phrase. For those of you not in the know, a fetish mask is usually made of rubber, leather, or pvc, sometimes has eyeslits, but not always, and is extraordinarily snug. The only way to breathe while wearing the extreme versions of such a mask is often through a tube, a straw - or a respirator. This gives the dom complete control even over the submissive's breathing. Serious turn-on for some folks.
No, I've never worn one. I just read a lot. Really. No, I don't know what I wrote that lead this person to me. I have nary a sadistic bone in my body.
Stop laughing.
lawn dwarf rectum. Ask yourself this: what, exactly, was the person looking for? OK, we know what they were looking for. The real question is -- why? Was it some horrifying lawnmower incident? The result of a nasty spousal spat? The desire to finally fulfill a deep yearning for ceramics? Is there a group of people out there who, hidden from view of judging eyes, passionately embrace yard ornaments and find true love? And what does it say about me that I actually typed those exact words? And submitted them? Am I a closet pink flamingophiliac?
Hot damn, my pants are on fire!. A strong recommendation to all readers: If you are in the process of self-immolation, your best bet of survival is usually not turning on your computer, firing up Internet Explorer (in more ways than one), and looking for your answers on a search engine. Just a suggestion, of course. Another possible suggestion: a 3-week course of penicillin. And don't scratch -- you'll only make it fester.
unknown - but it was in Farsi. It's a small world after all. I appear to communicate with people even when I can't write using their alphabet. I impress even myself.
mucal washcloth. Serious head cold, anyone?
freakishly ugly people. And it led straight to me.
constipated longest time teenage. Although Google is an amazing device, the last time I checked it was not, in fact, capable of performing colonoscopies. Of course, perhaps I'm just behind on the technology.
balls and penis and sagging balls. Oh sure, the first part of the phrase is nothing unique. Who doesn't do an internet search for dick? It's the imperative implied by repeating "balls" that makes this a revealing look into the human psyche. And not just "balls". Sagging ones. In duplicate. This is a human being in desperation of ball answers. This is a tortured soul, driven to seek the world over for the truth in droopy testicles. Oh, the yearning.
How to prevent ugliness from masturbation?. Now you know why Extreme Makeover has so many willing volunteers. If only they knew - just take the hand out of the pocket, ma'am, and back away from the massaging showerhead. Nice and slow, and no one will get hurt. At least we now also know why Sandra Bernhardt always seems so damn happy to be here.
pervert stop staring. Either someone has a stalking problem, or I forgot to turn off my webcam.
cigarette ash in a drink makes you drunk. No dear - cigarette ash in a drink makes you vomit. It's the drink that gets you drunk.
I Love My Vulva. I love your vulva too. It is so nice to see women's self confidence in their genitalia growing in leaps and bounds. Why, I feel so warm inside I just want to go right out and buy this woman a Vulva Puppet in celebration. I was hoping for one myself for my birthday yesterday - specifically Dice Entre las Piernas. It's a hat too. I'm nothing if not at the height of fashion.
nest of ingrown hairs. And the teenager with chronic constipation thought they had problems. See? There's no need to be embarassed about the boil on the rim of your rectum or that strange discharge - it's part of being human, in all its leaking, gummed up, throbbing, dirty, festering wonderousness.
Praise be to Google, the true Eye of Smoog.
make idle gossip (15 comments so far)
come hither - back off
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