The NERVOUS STOMACH Series: Ego-Strategy 34 – The Perils of Blogging

Tuesday, August 18, 2009 

The NERVOUS STOMACH Series: Ego-Strategy 34 – The Perils of Blogging

 

So I’m twenty eight and thinking that it’s a sin to let a blog go unblogged for nine months. But sins, like modern art museums or severance packages, must be evaluated relatively: how bad are they really?

I log back into my MySpace blog and start thinking about what the heck I’m going to write about…I mean we’ve lost Farah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, Ed McMahon, Walter Cronkite, and that OxyClean guy. I launch into a diatribe about the media’s uneven coverage of these events…when a screechy metal sound starts up outside.

I ignore it.

Cooper, my faithful spitz husky, runs to the window barking furiously. But he does this every time a leaf rustles down the sidewalk, so I ignore him too.  

The sound gets louder — I start wondering if I’m going to be one of those people you see on TV describing what it’s like when a tractor trailer drives through your front wall — and finally I get up from the computer and join Cooper at the window.

“What’s up, Boy?” I ask.

I think if he could talk, he might have called me a bad word for my slow response…but that all gets lost as the wall in front of both of us explodes inward. 

“Coop!” I scream, swatting at drywall and glass shards. A cloud of dust surrounds both of us. I cough and fall backwards, grabbing for Cooper’s furry mane. 

I think I would have actually got it, but at that moment, a cold, steel hand clamps over my wrist. “Yahhh!” I yelp a high-pitched, girly yelp and consider that it’s not just made up when they say in movies and books that the manly hero “…was so frightened he actually peed his pants.”

The cold, steel hand is attached to a cold, steel body. One cold, steel camera-like lens/eye stares me in the face from a semi-human robot creature that has attached itself to my left arm. I now consider that it’s not outside the realm of possibility to believe it when they say the manly hero “…was so frightened he soiled his trousers.”

“Are you looking for the Terminator set?” I joke, trying simultaneously to lighten the mood and wrestle my wrist free. The lens/eye regards me and a metallic voice from inside the robot booms forth. 

“Are-you-Gregory-Gerard?” it asks in a flat, I’ll-show-no-emotion-as-I-rip-the-male-parts-from-your-quivering-body sort of voice.

“Ummm…who wants to know?” I stall for time. 

The lens/eye flashes bright blue, which I might think was kinda cool if the situation were slightly less life-threatening. “Voice-match-confirmed,” it says. “I-am-the-MySpace-BlogBot-and-you-are-in-violation-of-MySpace-required-blogging-policy-you-will-now-pay-the-agreed-upon-penalty.”

“Agreed by who?” I squeak out, glancing left and right, wondering if I can reach my Treo PDA with my right hand. It’s on the left side of my belt, so my initial attempts are unsuccessful. 

“Agreed-by-WHOM,” the BlogBot corrects me. “When-you-created-your-MySpace-account-you-checked-the-I-agree-to-terms-and-conditions-box-terms-which-state-that-all-MySpace-bloggers-leaving-blogs-unattended-for-a-period-of-six-or-more-months-shall-forfiet-one-body-part-for-each-unattended-month.”

 

My scrotum retracts into a tiny ball.

 

“That’s crazy!” I yell at the creature.

 

“That’s-MySpace,” it replies, reaching another cold, steel claw toward a part of my body that a man never wants somebody to reach for without first asking permission.

 

My mind races with the possibilities for escape…in the movies, every cyborg has some vulnerability: high voltage, hydrochloric acid, molten lava. None are in the near vicinity. “Ahhh!” I shout instead.

 

That’s when Cooper leaps through the drywall cloud, fangs bared. He lands on top of the clawed hand, which swings out of control, missing me entirely. I use the distraction to grab my Treo from its belt pouch. I flip open the power port and jamb it ass-first into the chest cavity of the BlogBot. “Take that!” I shriek.

 

A huge load of sparks spews into the air, making that same cool blue color as the lens/eye. Cooper completes his leap and rolls out of harm’s way. An acrid electric-wire burny smell fills the air as the robot releases my left hand and slumps onto the floor, smoldering.

 

Cooper and I stand over the steaming hulk, breathing heavily. I pause, pet my trusted four-legged friend, and grab hold of now-defunct steel claws. “Facebook is better, anyway,” I say, dragging the BlogBot out to the curb.

 

For FUN, I put my stuff at www.GregoryGerard.net
For SERIOUS, I put my stuff at www.JupitersShadow.com
I invite you to visit my stuff.