>>> Casual Misanthropy
By staff writer JD Rebello
July 12, 2006

Why the hell would anyone have a MySpace profile?

Let me tell you a story: When I was 13, I wanted to get back into video games. (When you’re too short, wear glasses, have big ears, and squeak like a black chick at a Duke lacrosse party, girls and dances are pretty much out of the question.) For Christmas, I had a choice: Sega Saturn or Sony PlayStation. Everyone I knew had a PlayStation and raved about it. I went with Saturn. (By the way, my brother already had Nintendo 64, so don’t bitch about my options. Besides, the only good game for 64 was Goldeneye. And anyone who thinks Mario is better than Sonic is a fucking imbecile.)

Anyway, here’s why I turned my back on PlayStation: a) I’m a bleeding idiot, and b) some of you may not remember, but in those days, Saturn came with Virtua Cop, Virtua Fighter, and Daytona USA. That’s three free games. Fuck you, I like package deals. If a cute blonde ever came with a copy of Gran Turismo and a sixer of Sam Adams, I’d make cream like a Klondike Bar wedged in Nicole Ritchie’s twat.

“Is the site finished? It looks like an ultimate Frisbee team got real shitbombed and decided to rip off Facebook, then got bored 45 minutes in.”

Ten years later, the debate that defined my childhood has reappeared and this time, I’m happy to say I made the right choice. Because when you’re in college, and you become reduced to a self-absorbed shitbag, it’s only natural to join an online community. As fulfilling as it is to write for a college humor site that’s seen by literally dozens of people per month (Northeastern University department heads notwithstanding), I needed more. I needed people to see what my favorite movies and music were, and to leave retarded inside jokes on a “wall.” To take part in something that’s one step above online dating, and even more appropriately, to stalk that well-meaning brunette in my journalism class. I like to pretend that’s me giving her a hug instead of her dad. That’s not creepy, right?

So anyway, I had a simple choice: Facebook or MySpace. And, as I mentioned before, I made the right choice. Facebook is awesome. MySpace is shit.

Facebook is Nordstrom. MySpace is Building 19 (only about eight people, all Rhode Islanders, got that joke). Facebook is Rachel McAdams. MySpace is Bea Arthur. Facebook is Terminator 2. MySpace is Terminator 3 (Which never happened by the way. Female Terminator? What next? Females in politics?).

How does MySpace suck? Let me count the ways.

1. The layout.

Who designed this shit? I’ve had beer shits that were less chaotic. I joined MySpace for research purposes; honestly, it’s easier to explain the plot of Mulholland Drive than to send or receive a message on MySpace.

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And is the site finished? Seriously. Kiddie smut sites look more legit. It looks like an ultimate Frisbee team got real shitbombed and decided to rip off Facebook, then got bored 45 minutes in and said, “Fuck it, that’s good enough,’” then passed out.

2. People and their music.

I listen to my music loud, so typically the volume on my speakers is turned way up. Great when I’m watching lesbian action on my Real Player. Not so great when some crackfaced lunatic decided to upload the latest track from some Enya-Tori Amos shite that sounds like a dog when you step on its tail.

Why can’t people just have normal musical tastes like me? Christ. Everyone has to be all “indie,” and if they’re not “indie,” they’ve got their head up the ass of mainstream pop, and honestly, I can’t even bother bitching about that because my doctor told me my blood pressure is on par with someone who had been exposed to Agent Orange.

All I’ll say about pop radio is, Mary J. Blige recently covered U2’s “One,” only my favorite song of all time. Even if you hate U2, that should make you sick to your stomach. What happened? Did she run out of words that rhymed with “percolating?” When I heard that song, I literally had two aneurysms that had sex with each other. Not good times.

3. You and your gay blog.

Nobody reads your blog. Not to sound condescending, but you know what, I’m going to sound condescending. When people refer to my column as a “blog,” I want to drag them into the street and beat them to death with something plush.

Do you have any idea how long it takes to string together obscenities, racial slurs, and run-on sentences? Tens of minutes! As for blogs, Christ, who cares? They’re all shitty, save for the ones that are kind enough to republish my columns and actually give me credit for it. Thanks for that.

A few more words about blogs: a) I don’t care what your mood is. Seriously. Couldn’t care less. And b) Your poetry is stupid. I don’t know what possesses people to think it’s hip to copy and paste six chapters of some feminist douche waxing about… god, butterfly cunts? I don’t read it. And to round out my tangent within a tangent within a tangent, guys, if you have poetry in your away message or AIM profile, make yourself a gin and tonic that’s three parts embalming fluid. Douchebag.

4. The dumb little MySpace jokes.

Oooh MySpace humor. How deliciously clever. These are the same fuckbags who think Napoleon Dynamite is a great comedy and Ryan Reynolds is the funniest actor working today.

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If you’re wondering, “MySpace humor?” don’t be alarmed. The best example I can give is the 102-year-old female joke. I don’t get it. I know about 50 people who are making this joke. It’s not funny if everybody does it. In fact, it’s not funny if anybody does it. And what kind of reaction does this get?

“Ooh, hey Britney, Cody just claimed he was a 102-year-old female on MySpace! Get it? He’s actually 19, and I believe a man, but he claims he’s 102 years old and a woman! That’s priceless.”

Fuck you, Britney.

5. The sex solicitations.

I typically get two types of messages on my MySpace account: The first looks a little like this: “OMG you’re that Points in Case guy, Justin Gaudio DeGraaf Simonne Black-Guy-Whose-Name-I’ve-Forgotten! LOLOL I Love ur articlez.”

The second is: “Hi my name is [insert slutty name]. Wanna check out my webcam?” Listen, I’ve jerked off to YouTube, IMDB, and Gorilla Mask, and even I’m above sleazing my way through some webcam action. (On another topic, have you ever masturbated to a website that wasn’t pornographic? Kind of messes with your head, right? You think to yourself, “Shit, I’m running out of porn on the internet….” Kind of a scary day.)

Anyway, shutup about the goddamned webcam.

6. It’s more proof that girls are spectacularly dumb.

This is my recipe for every single girl’s MySpace profile:

1. First, ensure the background is something real bright. That way poor Justin can burn his retinas looking at your profile in the hope someone took a picture of you on the beach and caught a little minge by mistake.

2. Remember to add long sprawling poetry in there that nobody will ever read. For best taste, make sure you have no idea what the poetry means but tell people it reminds you of an ex-boyfriend.

3. Insert dumbshit polls nobody will ever take, like “Which Grey’s Anatomy Character Are You?” Turns out, I’m the ugly chick with bad skin who was in Old School. Awesome. I’m going to go jam a salad fork into my colon.

4. Make sure your message board is populated by your equally vapid friends. Ensure the words “bff,” “fabulous,” and “miss thang” are used a super amount.

5. This is extra, but if you can work in that “Dance like nobody’s watching… etc…” by all means, do. Boy, you don’t see enough of that. That’s the James Blunt of annoying girl internet quirks.

Seriously, if someone could explain this 102-year-old female thing and why that’s funny, I’m all ears. Actually, don’t waste my fucking time.

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