The writings of Oddpoet

Poetry that bleeds, screams and never sleeps

It’s all over the var­i­ous Blog sites how Twit­ter and other social net­work­ing sites have kept the world informed in the after­math of the sundry hor­rors that plague our species on what seems a daily basis. The recent Chilean earth­quake is a case on point. Admit­tedly I will do no research as I am a lazy fuck who unfor­tu­nately has lived among the bor­ing yous and mes. My apolo­gies to my eight grade Eng­lish teacher who would go on and on about my predilec­tion for run on sen­tences and my uncanny abil­ity to make up words in a pinch “You’re lazy Odd­poet! The period is your friend. And why is it so hard for you to find the appro­pri­ate words? “Fuck you too Miss Grundy.”

If have to make up shit to write this I will because chances are I have no respect for you. I barely respect myself. When did Blog­ging start requir­ing facts and integrity? The preva­lence of these sto­ries are a tes­ta­ment to all the Tech blog­gers out there who need to gen­er­ates back links and increase read­er­ship so they can sell more ads on their sites — Cha-Ching Cha Ching Just what the world needs another iPhone sale.

Let’s cull the imag­i­nary Twit­ter wire for some Jour­nal­is­tic prowess.

This one is from Ted Brook­shire, of Santa Mon­ica, CA, who was in Chile because he found out they have some nasty Pot that grows only on the South side of the moun­tains fer­til­ized by a com­mune of expa­tri­ate Peru­vian Lla­mas liv­ing in Chile.

“This shit is Good, smoked two bowls and the whole place went to shit”

From Maria, Peo­ria, ILL “A lot of con­crete fell on peo­ple, I’m sad. I’m going to cry now”

And…

Floyd, May­berry, NC the sub­duc­tion of the Nazca plate with the South Amer­i­can plate at a rate of three inches per year (eighty mil­lime­ters) giv­ing rise, wait, there are bod­ies mov­ing, it’s… Yea Floyd maxed out his Twit­ter mes­sage and some poor fuck­ers are dead because Floyd had to roll all smarty pants on us.

I reassessed my Twit­ter usage when I found out, much to my hor­ror; my rewrites were run­ning across the Twit­ter wire. Since every­thing I write sucks I’m always rewrit­ing. I have no illu­sions that any­thing I tell the world is remotely inter­est­ing. There was a chick on the soft­ware page with nice tits so I use it. The bitch hasn’t come over my house yet. Miss Grundy also said I was shal­low ‘”Fuck you again Miss Grundy”

It’s all bells and whis­tles, cheap per­fume mask­ing the scent of decay. Shiny sheets of fool’s gold hid­ing the fact that for the major­ity of peo­ple Life sucks. And they die because they are poor and no one gives a fuck.

Let’s all gear up with our iPhones, Twit­ter accounts, Black­ber­ries, MySpace, and Face­book pages and tell each other how we found a chicken in our Far­mville pad. Some­one hear­ing this in the Zaïre, Africa would say, “They get chick­ens from their com­put­ers? How cool is that?”

Any­one have a period I can borrow?

Tags: disasters, journalism, Social Network sites, twitter

This entry was posted on Thursday, March 4th, 2010 at 9:53 am and is filed under Prose. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.