Thursday, April 9, 2009

*pbpbpbbbpbbbthbthbthbthththth*

I do believe that's been the headline for all my social techology this morning.

It's the eternal cry of the defeated, the gomer left standing with her mouth open, her eyes blank and her brain ticking dangerously as she tries to fnd a wittier reply that *pbpbpbbbpbbbthbthbththththth*.

In the world of meta,% I believe I was practically bested.§ Oh, sure, I could've taken a picture of my cell phone taking a picture of Nathan's blog bomb... shit.

I shoulda thought of that before I conceded.

It's OK. I'm a graceful loser. AND I got Facebook.

[SUMMARY: Know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to throw one last rock and run.]

So anyway, *pbpbpbpbbpbbbthbthbthbththththth!*#


FOOTNOTE (crossed): I bet there's a real, official name for it. I bet Lucretia knows it. Hell, she knows what a landman is, she probably knows just about everything.

FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): I have to tell you, though, the best stupid, impotent comback ever was when my Uncle Tom nearly hit a pedestrian in a crosswalk while he (Uncle Tom) was in the process of ignoring a stop sign. The guy yelled, "Asshole!" Uncle Tom, not willing to give up the good fight, sputtered for a split second and retorted, "Well... you're a... double asshole!"

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Wiktionary:

Adjective

meta (comparative more meta, superlative most meta)
  1. (informal) Self-referential; at a higher level

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): When we used to have pun wars in high school, the key rule was that the last person to give a VIABLE (emphasis important) pun under the given subject won. Otherwise a really good xylem and phloem bit would lose to a really lame bit whose best plant-based element was the word "grow." So, yeah, I could've beat the parallel mirrors analogy flat into the ground by taking digital photos ad infinitum, but I've decided to take the high road and be VIABLE. You're welcome.

FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Marin trivia: Bobbi Newberg and I sang this as a duet, with me accompanying on guitar, in choir. Eighth grade. You're welcome again.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): You'd think I'd be more gracious since Nathan generously allowed that tweeting (I can't tell you how much I hate admitting to "tweeting" -- couldn't I just twitter?) about trying to figure out how to spell *pbpbpbpbbbthbthbthththth* even as I was spelling it was quite meta.

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