Zooples and Orel

(Note: This post was obviously originally a Myspace blog. Get over it.)

This is a post posted under the heavy influence of alcohol. I warn anyone who may usually find my blogs delightfully sober and chaste to please hit your "back" button to avoid tarnishing the otherwise unblemished image of me in your mind.

If there is one thing that I love, it's nearly inexplicable generalizations and unfounded bias. Thusly, I propose the following: Myspace is full of two basic types of guys: emo-guys and jocks. If you aren't shocked by my pithy observation, save your comments until you've read the full context of my musings.

So, we have emos and the jocks. Myspace is chock-full of the both of them. It seems that every guy on this network is either pitifully--though entertainingly--trying to seduce an image (and I emphasize the word image) of a really hot girl with generic compliments and kudos or posting sexually charged, less-than-subtle innuendoes juxtaposed with shirtless photos on the "hot" girl's profile. To me, this begs only one question: why can't we have zoos full of people?

Before you jump to a conclusion about my character, hear me out. Zoos full of people--or Zooples as I will refer to them henceforth--could be an amazing alleviation to many of mankind's problems. Not convinced? Just listen to our paid spokespersonality, 1988 World Series MVP, former Los Angeles Dodgers Pitcher and generally unattractive man... Orel Hershiser!

Orel: Zooples... Sounds like a crazy idea right? Wrong. I once pitched 59 straight scoreless innings, so I know a good pitch when I hear one. Also, my name is Orel, so I know what it feels like to be made fun of. You don't think I went through tons of bullshit when I was a kid? My fuckin' name's Orel! "Hey Oreleo!" they'd say. "Where's your cream filling?" Over and over they would chant. You think the handsome dudes get nicknamed "Bulldog"?! Well, do you? Do you?!

Whoa, Orel. Slow it down champ. We're talking about Zooples here.

The general idea is to put people into one of two types of specially designed enclosures:

Enclosure 1 will include a computer with a DSL connection, a bed with aesthetically uninspired bedding, one unframed Husker Du or Built to Spill poster (but let's face it, is there really a difference?), and a generally unkempt yet not untidy appearance.

Enclosure 2 wil include a computer with a Cable connection, a bed with aesthetically repellant bedding, one unframed LeBron James or Michael Vick poster (but let's face it, is there really a difference?), and a generally shipshape though unorganized appearance.

Here's the plan: throw an emo kid into enclosure 1 and a jock into enclosure 2. Then, serve the emo kid grilled cheese and Smiths albums and the jock kid Hamburger Helper and Linkin Park and simply sell tickets for $20.00 a pop ($18.00 with valid student ID) to watch them navigate Myspace for hours and hours.

Emo kids hitting feebly on professional models with entrepreneurial websites; jocks shooting impotent come-ons toward the semi-attractive... isn't this what's missing from this crazy website? The ability to watch the crazies going about their crazy way doing crazy things? Is there a better recipe for a night of fun at someone else's expense?

If this isn't at the very least a moneymaking idea, then I don't know what is. And I've seen every infomercial ever.

Who wouldn't rather send their hard earned dollars electronically over to that asexual "Tom" guy rather than put up with the ridiculously omnipresent advertisements from neighborhoodies.com, the all-new Tag body spray fragrance or True.com (actually, I kind of dig the boobs on those chicks from the True.com ads, so never mind that one)?

The simple answer is nobody. Or, rather, everybody. No, no, nobody. Nobody would rather deal with non-booby related ads. Speaking of which, all this talk about boobies is reminding me of tonight's most excellent episode of "The OC" wherein we all almost caught Marissa naked twice. God bless that show...

Well crap, I'm sorry. Now I'm too busy trying to remember the four times that Marissa bent over suggestively during tonight's episode (aptly entitled "Risky Business") to continue on my point regarding Zooples. Looks like this train is derailing earlier than initial projections would have suggested.

Blame wine; blame apathy; blame Mischa Barton. Blame whomever; I'm fucking tired. As always, thanks for your indulgence despite my incoherence; I owe everyone something of quality for next time.

By the way, don't be surprised if this runt-of-the-litter-styled post is culled from the herd on the morrow. If'n it ain't, then I've surprised us both and we should all drink to that (and, of course, my unscrupulous overuse of modifiers, qualifiers and italics. Zing!)!