Twitterfarts II: The Ultimate Betrayal

Hi all, and welcome back to our blog. If you are one of the many in search of obama boobs, you'll going to be disappointed this week.

Because we're talking about Twitter.

Sailor Jacket and I have been having some extra-curricular (i.e., non-posted) conversations about Twitter. That happens from time to time. Like most of the past year.

For those of you not in the know, Twitter became a really big deal this week on the internets. It's the new thing that everyone is doing, like friendster in 2002, napster in 1998, and aol in 1996. Politicians are doing it, and now people are blogging about what politicians twitter.

What is it exactly?

I'm not sure. I refuse to find out. The gist, I take it, is that you are constantly telling the world inane shit about yourself, like what you had for lunch, and what is going on with your favorite football team, what happened on your commute to work on the metro, burgers you may someday want to eat.

Seriously, who has time for that?

I, for one, don't. Except that maybe I do. On a purely research oriented websearch-- don't say I never did anything for you, .govs-- I went to the Twitter website. And I found something horrible there:

I've already signed up for twitter.

How did this happen? I'll explain, or try to. If everyone remembers back a year ago, sailor jacket and I got ourselves into a bit of a tizzy over the wii. The problem was, you couldn't find one anywhere. As always, the internets tried to solve anything, and it was possible-- so I was told by Deep Fried Bacon-- to have the internets CALL YOUR PHONE when a wii became available online. Too good to be true? Well, yeah, in the end I think so. And somehow the calling involved Twitter, which, at that time, was not the next big thing. It was a messy period of time, and I tried lots of things, apparently even Twitter.

I'm not so much ashamed as confused.

But fear not, .govs. You will not need to search for twitter to find me, just as you do not need to waste your parents' minutes trying to chat with me on AOL. I will be nowhere but here, the everlasting weddingfarts, until, well, we stop writing once again.