Monday, March 05, 2012

Just in time for the Apocalypse...


Cheers, friends! Happy 2012! 

So, all details and relevant information about my noticeable absence you may learn from and/or appreciate aside, I thought now was as good a time as ever to update this digital dirt hole with a few monkey plants before the all-powerful electric Octopus that oversees the Internet via black magic and ancient off-world overlord techno-sorcery becomes properly angered, and, in a hasty move brought on by said anger, suddenly  flings a continent-sized tentacle of digital oblivion in this direction and sweeps us under the rug of electronic existence for good. You know, that old chestnut.

But for serious, this past year my presence on the Monkey Mothership was very much like Patrick Swayze's character in the Hollywood film 'Not Alive Person': people knew I was around, but they just couldn't see me. So, unless you were a sexy lady into foreplay pottery or the sassy Afro-American icon and comedienne who got her break serving Romulan Ales at the Star Trek's space bar who now hosts a popular morning show in North America in which a multicultural quartet of quasi-famous shrieking ladies of various ages and sizes collectively dish out sass-enhanced "advice" to millions of women across the world, you didn't have a chance of spotting me on the line. (Facebook and/or paranormal conspiracy website forum boards excluded.) Here is a scientific diagram for further clarification:

Speaking of "The View," here's an interesting fact: market research shows that this show is also enjoyed by several other growing audiences, including but not limited to: young felons on house arrest, pre-nap cats, peripherally-amused vacuuming housekeepers, home bound truant children ages 12 to 18*,  and, last but definitely not least, the demographic most highly sought after by advertisers of 2011 and speculated to grow explosively in Q1 of 2012: the 28-34 bored/unemployed/marginally depressive male sector that tend to watch the program ironically while text-scoffing friends about American greed and the piggish capitalist avarice of the upper class barbarian blood drinkers of Corporate elite, all the while while using marijuana both before and after their daily MW3 prestiges, boredom masterbations, and disco naps, who also enjoy cyber-stalking the various women they've friended on Facebook whom they are too afraid to/too bored to/too stoned to ask out on an actual date. (TV execs call this group "Recons." See picture below.)

Example of a "Recon." Pictured serving mark ass busters for spawn camping.

*Amongst market researchers, this specific group is known as the "young adult Asshole demo," or "YAT's" as the ad wizards call them. It's longer official title, the "12-18 year olds that stay home from school and are highly-depressed young adults that frequently miss school and have no will and/or motivation to do anything at all, with the exceptions of eating cereal slowly at 2:30 pm while staring at the black and smooth handle of a sharp kitchen knife on the counter which just ends up depressing them even more, at which point they sigh heavily, slump out of the room in their pajamas while scrolling their tumblr dashboard for something suitably ironic to express their anguish at the universe and their (ugh) dumb Mom, who is being a total effing C-word lately for no reason at ALL, which sucks (natch) wicked bad. And, it makes them totally not feel bad at all for stealing her Xanax or telling her she's waaaay too much of a fatty and too effing old to be on Facebook liking MY friends posts all the damn time. Right? Bible, I totes need to get emancipated from my dick asshat parents ASAP. Apparently you can do that. Fuck yeah, America! For serious, guys, I borrowed Adam's new Droid during math yesterday and wiki'd it, and apparently this actor named Gary Coleman did it (no idea who that is) and Drew Barrymore, too. And she turned out fine, so...yeah" demographic is, in short, far too long and unnecessary for the purposes of this discussion. 

Where was I? Hmm. Oh. Yeah. Me being an asshole and never writing. Sucks, I know. I wish I had a story about being attacked by finger eating bears deep in the hinter forests of some remote state park I had absolutely no business being in after dark. But it wasn't at all like that. It's simply because I just couldn't write. I could have blamed it on the rain, but seeing how Vanilli put a boom stick in his lip-syncing mouth and pulled the trigger, starting the last one hit wonder he'd ever have to live through again, painting the sad, barren wall that his crying chair leaned against in a light coat of strawberry, I decided not to chance it.

Superstitious, I guess.

But on the off-chance I may accidentally summon an angered God from above that controls the sky waters and hates the mockery of foolish mortals I want to go on record for not blaming it on the rain in any way, shape, or form. And, if that God still decides he or she (or it) will go continue to go ahead and smite me for my e-blasphemous words, I will tell them that Milli put me up to it, and hopefully reunite them so they can do the running man together again, in Heaven.

Heaven 5 day forecast: 
Sunny, Sunny, Sunny, Sunny, Sunny.

It's funny, if you don't "blog" enough, every post becomes an apology. So I’m sorry for that. I can only offer my apologies for the ongoing apologies, and a pre-apology for my constant apologizing I plan on doing after this apology. Sorry for that. And the first thing I said. But, this place isn’t going anywhere. Fast. With a vengeance (not really). 

But, through my absence I heard from many of you encouraging me to re-light the monkey fires. Which brings me here, to you. So if you're reading this, you are fucking terrific. I want to gift wrap a high-five with a laser beam bow and mail it to you on the back of an awesome fire breathing death dragon that you can keep as a pet for fun, friendship, or use to terrorize your local village with.

I love you. (Yes, in that way.) I said it. Can you take the emo uppercut? I know you can. I don’t love losers who can’t handle the truth. So you must be winners that can. 

Congratulations on being my new anony-friend crushes. And I'd stand outside your window with a boom box like John Cusack if it meant you'd keep loving me back. I love you more than Dick Cheney loves shooting lawyers in the face. I love you more than mustaches love newly gentrified sections of Brooklyn. I love you more than robot alcoholics love drinking oil. I love you more than…well, you get the idea. 
Sooooo...what have you been doing? Wait. Don't answer. Let's not ruin this chemistry we got percolating with boring “conversation” about stuff that matters to you that I likely won’t care about. It’s not personal, it’s just, last time I checked, (I've never checked) this is my blog. Technically it's Google's blog, but they own more things than the Oprah or the Rothschilds combined, and it’s forbidden to toss stones at the laser Gods. So, if you don't mind, I'll now continue talking about myself and anything else I see fit to discuss without any more back sassing. Coolio? Great. Speaking of Coolio, that word is tangible proof that it takes exactly two letters added to the word “Cool” in order to completely and totally eliminate 100% of the actual coolness from it.

cool+(i)+(o)= - cool. 
Authenticity...but at what cost? 

So where was I? Ah, yes. I spent the better part of last year, sighing, crying, smoking, betting, regretting, Boba-Fetting, Facebooking, Google-tumbling, relationship stumbling, napping, clapping (sarcastically), rapping (bombastically), carb attacking (diabetically) (see fig. a) and I-app-ing myself into the state of digital numbness post-modern Internet 2.1+ blasé boredom we all wade in from the moment our devices wake us up in the morning until our vices tranquilize us into the hibernation period in between day cycles and market closings.

 Fig. a: "Diabetes"

I have to admit, to you, oh wonderful, loyal electo-ninjas who have laughed with me over the years as my cheerful faceless friends that I hope to one day have proper awkward conversations with face to face, and to the real life people I know who think I'm amusing who drop in to the Simian beta stream, that with all these tween-opiating technologies suddenly at my nerd fingers it seems that M4H posts have become less frequent than I would have liked. 

So, seeing as the Internet has become a giant, overwhelming share-orgy gang-banging the link world with cross-sharing net 2.0 widgets and "like" and "share" buttons on every website with a decent Alexa rating, I've decided to only post original content here from now on. 

I can't keep up with the linky-links. There's just too many of them. I simply can't process them all. Think of me as that guy no-one remembers in Star Wars somewhere towards the end of Star Wars IV right between Porkins getting killed and the awesome part where Luke blows up his Dad's office, except hyperlinks and retweets and memes, gifs, and cats in hats are the swarming mob of tie-fighters blasting me in my brain's face for daring to rebel against the Empire. The onslaught of stimulation and sensory bombardment overwhelmed my early internet nerd brain, a thing I was convinced was ready for anything after years of Jedi training shooting links off the net faster than Endor Forrest troops going on Ewok joykilling runs when on Moon leave. (fyi: nothing brings out the kill lust in the emotionless clone hearts of Empire troops like space cocaine. Combine that with the visceral anger and depression commonly found in troops on remote outposts in unjust wars with some kick ass speeder bikes, and presto! A giant pile of dead Ewoks.) 

While on the subject of Ewok killing, I must note that although I usually don't agree with the Empire politically speaking, on a practical level, I tend to side with the Palpatine camp on this issue. Anyone who has ever had a holiday on Endor ruined by their noisy drum parties or had a dangerous run in with one while hiking can attest to their repulsive nature. Those filthy little monsters have abducted groups of people (and robots) simply for the purposes of eating them at their paganistic rituals. And that's not Imperial propaganda, that's just truth. The more dead Ewoks the better. Plus less Ewoks would be a huge shot in the arm for the Endor tourism industry, in turn creating literally hundreds of jobs for both local Endorians seeking vermin-free hiking experiences and off-world hospitality job seekers alike. Who can find the harm in that? I sure can't. 

Doing the Internet (see fig.b) these days is like doing the futuristic drug "Nuke" from Robocop2. It feels good, but it hurts the brain area of my brain. Especially in my head, which is where my brain is, so that can really hurt my brain when that happens.

 fig. b: "The Internet"

Hence, the far less frequent posts. But I'm happy to report that my writer's blockade seems at least to finally be over. I’m just glad to be here again. Trying to adapt to Web 2.0 as an old dusty blogger from the days of yore is tiring. 

Remember before? Things are crazy and kind of awesome now, like Syd Barrett or Gary Busey. But the Internet where I used to blog by making a funny and/or discussing odd random links has become a super intense steroid-enhanced version of itself. The Blogosphere I knew seems to have only recently had its digital door kicked in by the laser tsunami cloud that is the new and shockingly overloaded internet 2.0; a place where information is streamed with the force of 10,000 nerds multiplied by a thousand hipsters then divided by the square of awesome. Which is greater than, or equal to, whatever. (Whatever.)

Seeing what has become of that wonderful web makes my eyes want to give my face a sadness shower. Where did it go? Does anyone know? Hold on, there's an app for that.

So from here on, in between gaps of original posts, I'm going to be attempting to be integrating my constant onslaught of pics I post on the M4H Tumblr into a new template I'm working on. Let us keep the precious Monkey blood of joyful laughter funshine flowing at ALL costs. Protect the priceless spice of stupidity at all costs. I'm going to mine the net like Baron Harkonen on Arrakkis if I have to. So that if it all ends tomorrow, I’m going out like Paul Attreides on Arrakis; riding the data-stream like Sand Worms till my motherfucking nerd eyes turn blue.

If you have any web design geek tips to keep the site going, let me know. I can harvest the apropos app from the iCloud that syncs my laserpad to my to do list. This way my robot butler doesn't get confused when he reads me my daily bucket list which I listen to while eating the poorly made eggs he cooked for me earlier with his awkward iron hands.

I've also been updating the M4H Facebook page, filling it with the 1000+ pics I've put up on the Tumblr, for those of you who do that computering. 

Oh and in closing, I'd like to say, all joking aside..thanks for reading.

In these pre-Asteroid of doom days where down is up and right is wrong, I know you have many options in the digital realm to amuse and entertain you. So it makes my chimp heart go ape shit bananas with dork love when I get your emails and hear you tell me outside bars why I should write again. (It's OK to get emotional, I'm crying inside like my Mom did on the outside when I showed her Christian the Lion on youtube.)

Here's to you. The only people I like besides myself (sometimes). But unlike me, I don't hate you ever. Never ever. For ever. (For everever?) Yes, rap fan. For ever ever. I promise I won't ever shake your faith in me like a Polaroid picture ever again. 

So take that little cursor inside your wondeful soul and go ahead and click "like" on your heart button, because... iLove you. All, of you. If I could "poke" your faceless faces with my nerd stick I would out of appreciation for your (b)lo(g)yalty through the years. (That sounded creepy, but sometimes love gets weird. Deal with it.)

Ok. I'm tired now. Gotta go. More posts soon! (And by soon I mean within the next year.) 

K, I'm ghost like Zeul. See you on the laserbus, nerds. 

Muchos digi-besos,

Señor Mr. Recon  

-M4H commander/chief nerd herder in charge, graduating class of The Internet, 1995.

PS: We are currently seeking to hire a blog caddy/information gopher to help turn this glorified old man's final project from HTML night class at Community College into something new; a fresh, bold look that will ensnare the attention of the Adderall sniffing, sarcasm wielding, overclocked internet hipsterati of the new world nerd order who can hopefully tolerate and accept this place into their daily buffet of infoporn and social oversharing. Basically I need a nerd, with real professional nerding skills, to e-deliver a series of round house kicks to the binary electronic face of my source code. Just a cool gal or fella from cybertown who packs a e-hook like a bulldozer and works for cheap.

We need someone to pull the bully beatdown all over that Internet's grill; beating it mercilessly, punching it square inside its number-filled Matrixface. This (and readers' continued support) will allow me to keep M4H alive and continue to annoy the world with the stupidest things I can find to say. 

So if you want to help make my site cool and awesome(er), I'd be glad to have your help. E-mail me. (On the computer. Over here. Or here.)  

And to all the rest of you, I got 2 new posts in the queue. Stay tuned.....