I Hate MySpace.

I just love entering my username and password, clicking Log In, and being greeted with a screen cheerfully exclaiming “You must be logged in to do that!” (Uhhh… OK.) I imagine a Nell Carter-like nanny standing before me, wide-eyed, one fist on her ample hip and the other hand wagging a manicured finger at me.

At least it’s not offering me some sort of lame, undefined error and inviting me to try again later — for the 87th time.

And how many more friend requests from buxom 16-year old girls (i.e., fronts to tempt me into various degrees of heterosexual pornography) must I endure? Natasya wants to to be my friend! Oh, goodie. I love her lacy panty and size-too-small push-up bra. I have the same set myself at home.

Lidia wants to be my friend! Cool. I really admire how she carries herself while stepping out of that yellow cab in her 6-inch spike heels, just avoiding the beaver shot under her three-inch mini skirt and spilling out of her loose, furry halter top.

Leonora wants to be my friend! Whoa — it’s my lucky day. I wonder how long it takes her to scrape her bleached hair into that greasy ponytail, pluck every single eyebrow hair out of her face and draw on those ridiculous brown arches, and smudge on the Oompa Loompa orange foundation, beige eyeshadow, white eyeliner and glossy pearlescent lipstick. I bet she looks picturesque when the construction worker next door creams on her face in volume 3 of Bronx Butt Sluts.

Not that I have anything against porn, you must understand…


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