FacebookFriend™ Implodes!!! (graphic pix NSFW)

I said I wouldn't do it. I was rather proud of myself for not doing it.

Other were proud of me... for not doing it.

I'm doing it!!! I can't help it.

Facebook is an integral part of life for many of us. Those who don't get out often to lead normal social lives. Those who CAN'T get out to lead normal social lives. Those who are too busy or dead-set focused on projects to get out and party it up.  Whatever your blend, Facebook, along with Twitter and Instagram,  are nice to have around when a surrogate is necessary to feel connected with the world beyond your little box.  Most of the time, these apps perform their task admirably. Of course, it has less to do with the service, and more to do with "friends" of yours sharing that service with you.

Yes... "friends". The word "friend" is (alongside "hate" and "love") perhaps one of the most consistently mis-used and misunderstood words in the english language. Speak to somebody at a get-together -- they're now your friend. Bump into Steven Speilberg at Whole Foods -- he's now your friend (and also now goes by the moniker "Stevie Baby" for some unknown reason). Share floor sweat at the Yoga Shelter for the Spiritually Awkward -- friend!  

These are not friendships. They are, at best, acquaintances and nothing more. A friendship takes time to mold. Loyalty must be proven, and trust must be built, none of which can be accomplished over a latte and a chat about Rumi. Yet, many in society use this term as freely as the air we breath. But, when faced with adversity, this "friendship" falls to pieces, not sturdy enough to bear the weight of a wayward feather as it topples and disintegrates like a three-legged chair built of coffee-stir sticks bound with carmelized raw sugar.  

Case-in-point. Yesterday, I snapped a pic of an event I honestly thought I'd never see: a man using a red gasoline canister to refill his stranded... PRIUS!!!?? I posted it, with some snarky haiku about the douchebag thinking it runs on ions.  Many found the post slightly humorous. Save, that is, for one. We'll call this person SG asa reference. I read the comment, had absolutely NO idea what SG the FacebookFriend™ was going on about (I don't think that's a noun yet, so I'm taking it with a ™). The following comment, I handed the individual a couple of positive props and carried forth with my day.

Well, apparently another FacebookFriend™named FM (see that I'm no longer using the overused term "friend") decided to chime in with an extended sermon about yoga people, electric cars,  hippies, and a ton of F bombs. I didn't notice it until later in the day. The problem is, SG viewed it first, and was clearly offended. How do I know this? Did SG counter FM's post with a comment or two? Did SG call me or message me, asking me to kindly delete the noted comment-of-disgust? SG was tagged in the pic, and can very easily have un-tagged themselves. Did SG do that?  Nope.

SG sent me a curt FB message, about us having our "ups and downs". About not wanting to be rude, but "I'm going to unfriend you", then finishing off the note with "Take care" as though our real-life friendship is over, as well.  I read it, and for the life of me couldn't understand what in the blue Hell SG was talking about. It HAD to be the Prius post, right? I doubled back to it, and there I found FM's expletive-fest adding color and flavor in all the wrong ways. You know, like icing a chocolate cake with puree-d sardines.

The very first thing crossing my mind was "But WAIT!!! Those aren't my words". This was the requisite knee-jerk reaction were are are prone to, and much of the time we wrongly commit to this reaction as our main course of "action".  But this time was different. I took a breath or two, and uttered these exact words:

"Oh well. Their loss."

And just like that, I no longer cared, and in hindsight, I'm wondering if I ever did. I managed to see through the facade to reveal a hyper-sensitive, overly indulgent, quasi-stable human being. Yes, I can be cynical, slightly caustic, and a bit jaded at times. I'm a realist. I don't live on a steady diet of plastic joy, padded friendships, indulging self love, and the Bible-replacing rummagings of Rumi (Gumi the Sage, perhaps.... look him up on Facebook and you'll know what I mean). In addition, we we're NEVER really friends to begin with, but acquaintances and little more. 

A true friend who actually gave a damn about the relationship would have extinguished all options, from un-tagging themselves from the photo to a comment rebuttal to a "please make FM go away" message -- which I did, by the way, soon after discovering it. Yet, SG's hyper-sensitive freak out mode jetted into Mach 5, and before I know it, not only do I have one less FacebookFriend™, but it appears one less real life "acquaintance" as well.

But that's why we call them an acquaintance. We know them, but not particularly well, as they appear and disappear with very little discernible alteration to our daily lives and happiness.

There. I did it. Now, for some coffee.

C'est la vie

GUMI, Rumi's Long Lost Half Brother, Revealed by Archaeological Discovery

In what is being both lauded in the archaeological community as ground-breaking, and within the yoga/spiritual warrior/incessant Facebook poster (YoSpiWarInFaPo) community as heresy, a group tending a sanctioned dig outside the city of Istanbul, Turkey had found a sealed chest amongst several other artifacts. And within that chest, several dozen letters of communication and an illustrated parchment paper. 

The letters belong to Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī, better known to yoga people worldwide as Rumi. The letters, according to the IFBS (Institute for Finding Buried Shit), reveal a figure long lost within the annals of history, Jabba ad-Gīn Mozzarella Gūmī. 

"He appears to be Italian in origin, not of Persian descent as with Rumi", according to Larry Esfandyar- 

Farrokhzad of the IFDS. "We believe he was younger than Rumi by quite a few years, and born from his father's side of the family." Esfandyar-Farrokhzad also believes Rumi, a seriously deep thinker, cared very little for his hard-partying, frequently drunk brother (the partying expressed in several letter, and the drinking from the spilled wine over many of the correspondence). Though Gumi did attend Università degli Studi di Napoli Federico in Naples (noted as one of the first modern public universities in Europe.. and a place to find a good party), the lack of mention of any forwarding correspondence noted in any of Gumi's writings suggests Rumi viewed Gumi with disdain, and rarely (if at all) wrote back.

But the controversy lie not in Rumi's actions (or lack of) toward Gumi, but what he did with the letters after receiving them.

"During the inspection of the frayed parchments, one observer who teaches yoga part-time began to cry and then rushed out of the room. She could be heard mumbling, doubled over in a fetal position in a corner, 'This can't be happening. This is so crazy and nutty, I need space...'. We thought was sick or injured. As it turns out, many of the great sayings annexed to Rumi might have been lifted indirectly from Gumi's letters themselves", states Esfandyar-Farrokhzad.

As the team poured over the letters, connections between what appears to be drunken banter on Gumi's behalf, and the perfectly pitched words of Rumi loved worldwide, began to reveal themselves.

"This is so wrong!", chortles Deboraah Saucerass, Lead Lion Goddess of YoSpiWarInFaPo. "I mean, can you believe it? The IFBS know nothing of the spiritual awakening and self-love Rumi delivers our warrior nation with each and every Facebook post. I personally have attended his love sermons in Malibu, and I can personally tell you his words come from a strong heart and devoted mind... not from some letters sent by his half-brother!" 

When mentioned that Rumi died in 1273, over 741 years ago, Saucerass ran out of the room in tears, doubling over in a corner in the fetal position, muttering "OMG. Then who did I give my credit card info to???"

More information about this incredible discovery, and many of the unaltered musings, can be found at
https://www.facebook.com/gumithesage

"NPR SleepStar" A B-Side commercial parody

Sorry, NPR. But, it's kinda the tru.....zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

"Land of Oz 10K Run" A B-Side commercial parody

Gotta get back on these.

Ricin Family Portrait... they should've KNOWN.

C'mon. Is EVERYBODY in the great state of Texas greatly oblivious to something plainly obvious to a common dust mite?  The only thing I doctored on the photog is (obviously) the text.

But this IS an actual "family portrait"of the Richardsons, better known to you and I as the Ricin Family -- the lovely tribe who enjoy bit acting, killing varmints, and sending ricin letters to Obama and Bloomberg.

So... what's with the Hippie?????

He can't be a son. He's too advanced in age, and the parent, too young.

My money is on "baked brother". He resembles the husband a bit, and considering he's the only male in the pic owning the belief that delightful hair product shouldn't be reserved solely for females and doucebags.  I'll add "en route to Woodstock and took a left in Des Moines, instead of a right... and still thinks it's 1969.... and reeks of Mother Earth".

Of course, this IS "New Boston, Texas", a contradiction in terms if I've ever heard one. Of course, New Boston is only 100 miles or so Southwest on the I 30 from Arkadelphia, Arkansas.

Wow! Arkansas and Philadelphia. Blends as smoothly and as seamlessly as... well, Texas and Boston! Is this like the redneck version of Sharktopus.

Also, what's the tyke on the left pulling out of his shoe.  Is it a shoe bomb? Is it a packet of ricin?

Is it the fake Academy Awards Best Actress envelope his psycho mom forces him to orate nightly to her as she accepts a curiously formed fire log for her work in Madea's Big Happy Family?

Not 100% sure what's crazier: The Ricinlopes, or actually believing ANY Tyler Perry film has a shot at being nominated for ANYTHING.

I should email her at whyguessit@yahoo.com (I swear, the address is on her imdb.com resume), and ask.

Oh, wait.... she's in JAIL. Almost forgot.

Angelina Jolie Changes Her Body, Then Changes Her Mind

It's been rumored, as it was when she originally conducted the voluntary surgery, that Angelina Jolie has (once again) waffled on something that simply cannot be flipped as readily as an iHop pancake.

The source (NOT Perez Hilton) claims a man and a woman, with 23 children en tow, who looked suspiciously like a homeless Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie -- if they raided Western Costumes "Fashionista Skid Row" department, as well as the local Mercedes Benz dealership.... in addition to the local orphanage -- entered a popular Hollywood prosthetics company this week, asking about "fake flesh that feels real and can hold milk".  Perplexed, the manager directed the couple and their Benetton army to a dairy farm just outside of Los Angeles.  Miffed, the couple and their 22 children marched off, boarded their semi, and departed in haste (according to the source, one of them blurted "oooo, cowsies mommy Angie" and was summarily scarified for the sake of the ruse).

The rig, dubbed "The Freedom Barge" by the tabloids due to the large quantity of adopted foreign children who ride it, later appeared at Rick Baker's Monster Make-Up House. Behind closed doors, as their 21 children purged their energy playing street hockey with fake body parts, negotiations (again, allegedly) turned heated as Baker repeatedly pointed and gawked at the "homeless woman who looked just like Angelina Jolie's" chest area, as the "homeless man who looked just like Brad Pitt" barked in retaliation.  Meanwhile, the "20 homeless kids who look just like homeless kids" took sides and placed bets. Soon, the army was on its way -- and again, empty chested.

A double mastectomy is a serious commitment, born of many hours, days, or perhaps weeks of dedicated thought process and expert consultation. Or, in the case of the Hollywood elite, over a power nosh at Soho House and a midday bender.  What might be construed as a brilliant idea on Monday may, like so many overly-managed Hollywood flops, morph into a massive miscalculation by Friday. It seems Ms. Jolie's advisory board very well could have consisted of a rail-thin feminist, an alimony-stricken plastic surgeon, a narcissistic publicist, a Monsanto executive (since they're inherently evil, no matter what... allegedly), and the Goddess Gwendolicious Neebong, famed Thai fortune telling cross-dresser to the stars, whose hatred for any kind of milk product is infamous.

As the legend continues.


Brando's Brain is a creative product of BeelineMedia.com.  Check us out for tons of quality crap-ola and great products, like the imdbme tee, and The Big H cartoon book.  It's all dysfunctional... and it's all good.




 

PSA of the Day: Working with Spiritual Goddesses Can Kill

A public service announcement all reading should heed.  Never, and I repeat... NEEEVVVVEEERRR conduct any business with a self-described spiritual goddess/self help guru/ lifestyle evangelist WITHOUT:

a) A realistic budget based upon realistic information derived from her real world, as opposed to her fanciful, perfect world she shall "receive" after completing her online "Discover Your Inner Business Beauty" 10 week session.

b) A realistic deposit based upon said realistic budget derived from before-mentioned real world information not culled from neither her online "discover myself" classes nor her goddess group gurus whom she turns to for "metaphysical support and understanding".

c) The very real possibilit she'll bolt from the assignment simply due to the her "feminine warrior" instincts and nothing more.

d) A train wreck clause, which basically justifies full billing if she suddenly pulls out of an agreed deal for reasons such as "the stars spoke to me" or "this is hard work and my aura is at risk."

I should have known better.  The moment I walked into her place, I should have known better. Instantly, the ABC rule (Always Be Closing) should have launched into full tilt boogie. "Secure the project! Secure the money!" must be your inner mantra.  The Vegan lifestyle. The trinkets and yoga paraphernalia. The words which construct her sentences. Her excited inclusion within several online "women only" business sessions that promote feminine power, self-love and self-worth in addition to teaching how to balance an accounts receivable ledger. The candles. The colors.  It all spelled one thing, and one thing only...

Galactic Flake!

You see, it's not about the online business sessions, nor the yoga, nor is it the way she goes about saying things. Individually, nothing evil nor unjust can result from any of these lifestyle choices. Yet, cumulatively, they paint a portrait of a closet case narcissist quite prevalent amongst the walking and breathing of Los Angeles.  The "It's All About Me" collective of spiritual fucktards who'll walk away from commitments for the solitary reason that it suits them at that particular moment, since they "live in the moment.  Never mind the conduct of proper business. Pay no attention to logic and reason. They play the instrument of life with the fingers of emotion, and if they wake up tomorrow to their wheatgrass juice, organic oatmeal, and Tibetan chants -- and suddenly "feel" the necessity to 86 their business agreement with you, then so be it.

They need no reason, since it's all about them and what THEY want.  Really?  Fine...

Good bye and good riddance.

Playing with this deck of razor blades hoping I might not get sliced is completely on me. But, the money would have been nice.  The year (in addition to 2012) has not been too terribly kind on my pocketbook, so I unthinkingly dove head first into the work to rejuvenate my ambition. She seemed nice at the time, and the project had a possibility of extending well past the character design stages.

Again, on me. The reality of the situation is simple: Nobody in the health coach, self-help arena has any money! Check that... they do.  After all, that $1500 online course on "Discovering Your Secret Feminine Soldier of Love and Prosperity" doesn't pay for itself. And yes, it's pay-in-advance and non-refundable.

Perhaps that's the secret! Become a self-described guru, charge everybody exorbitant online fees up front, and offer them in return a template package I've sold a thousand times before that has never worked.

Or, walk away from the headache altogether and write it off as a loss.

......*

Still thinking.