Why is it so hard for a man to ask another grown man to be his “Friend” on Facebook? Sure I can ask dozens of women whom I know to be my friend, but something about sending another man a note, asking to be friends… it's so “girly”.
Like most people, I’ve worked eight hours a day for years. But now, with Facebook, I get to really enjoy these eight hours, surfing through a maze-like Internet within the Internet, finding old friends from high school and college, but mostly finding people I wanted to be friends with in high school and college, and seeing if they’re fat now, or bald, or missing teeth, and generally look like they’re losers. I get really upset when I see someone who still looks good, or has a good job. I usually won’t eat my lunch then and I’ll look for a place to take a nap. That’s how down I’ll get.
I just joined a gym; so this morning, through Facebook, I asked this guy who goes to my gym if he wanted to be my Facebook friend and work out with me after work today. I barely know him. He’s just this guy who needed the treadmill yesterday while I was using it and the machine kept pausing because it thought I wasn’t doing anything, but I was. This guy, who I’d never seen before, told me that I was walking too slow. He added that I should at least be walking as fast as a normal person would on a sidewalk. I stopped then (stomach cramps), and as I stepped off the machine, the gym started spinning around me.
“Finally,” this guy said, and he got on the machine and started sprinting, and huffing and then going, “Ahhhhhhhh!” as he made the treadmill incline go higher and higher. It didn’t take long before he was running on an almost vertical surface. I was so impressed that I looked his name up on the treadmill reservation list. It was Paloo DeBuckachoo.
As soon as I got into the office this morning, I looked him up on Facebook and saw that he has 1002 friends! I summoned all my courage and sent him a message asking him to be my Facebook friend, and introducing myself as the guy who used the treadmill before him at the gym yesterday.
He sent me back this Facebook message:
Who the hell are you? And what are you doing creeping on my Facebook page? Weirdo! Did you think I’d start spotting you as you lifted your 3-pound dancer-cize weights, while telling you to be careful and not hurt yourself. Don’t even let me see you at the gym tonight, or I swear…
I wrote him back this message:
I am not a weirdo, nor do I have any other intention in mind other than just to be friends with you. I hope I spelled your name right - it’s so exotic.
BTW, if you don’t want to spot me, that’s fine. I could spot you. Wouldn’t that be nice? If you already have a spotter, that’s cool. But I could be a better spotter, plus I’m really nice, and really, really want to spot you.
I don’t know who the hell you are! Nor do I want to know you, creeper freak! Stop sending me messages.
What’s one more friend on Facebook? You have 1002! I only have 2: my wife and my cat. I’d just be one more name in your collection of over a thousand in your Friends Profile. You wouldn’t even know I was there, other than I change my status line every half hour (with things like “Eric is at work”, “Eric is enjoying a half-frozen éclair – Yuck!” and “Eric is not sure if he’s male, human, or a psycho!”). I also add and delete Facebook applications like I’m getting paid for it, post dozens of YouTube videos daily (sometimes the same one more than once if I think it’s funny), and send out invites to events such as “My Cat’s Cyber Birthday Parade – Please RSVP”. I have so much fun. You and I could really enjoy each other on Facebook.
Ta-ta for now,
Little lonely sad man,
Enough is enough. I’ve blocked you from my Facebook page and reported you. You’ll most likely lose your Facebook account.
I am not Marsha the cat. I’m now actually writing you from my cat’s Facebook profile since Facebook has taken away all my Facebook privileges. I’m sorry things didn’t work out between us. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you might be conceited (and in love with yourself and your over-treadmill-ized body). I just wanted to be your friend because you were so popular on Facebook, but I can see now that you are what is called a “Facebook Slut”. You don’t care who you sign up or ask to be your friend, as long as you keep collecting those little pictures of people pretending to be happy with their present state of affairs by having their photo taken while guzzling an alcoholic beverage, wearing an oversized funny hat and gigantic sunglasses, and hugging a whole bunch of other inebriated, sleepy-eyed, so-called friends. You love to see that Friends number go up, like your score on Mario Brothers. But do you really even have one friend? Do you? Let me tell you something. In order to have a friend, you need to be a friend (and let nice men spot you). You won’t hear from me again, or my cat. BTW, Walmart has a sale on man-leotards. Thought you might like to know.