Real Men/Women of Genius #77

Bud Light presents…

REAL MEN OF GENIUS

{Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss}

Today we salute you, Mr. Blogger-Twitter-Tweeter-Woofer-MySpacedOut-Facebooker While Still Running in the Footrace Footracer.

{Mis-ter Whoa! Thissssssss Is A Mouuuuuuuuth-fulllllllllll!!}

You are truly something special. Leave it to you to take that “one step beyond” just talking on the telephone–in the middle of some national forest–to actually receiving and sending MAIL from there. And all the while barely breaking stride, except when you can’t see that minuscule little plasma screen in the blazing sunlight, or you hit the wrong buttons, or fat-finger several keys at once, or get the addresses wrong. *Then* you’re stopping for twenty minutes at a clip.

{Sommmmmmme-times there’s dropped connnnn-nec-tionsssssssssssss!}

Please. Are there mailboxes bolted to those maple trees? Does the US Postal Service drive its little funky trucks down the trail and pick up every thirty minutes? Nah, make that every thirty seconds! Is there something wrong with the audio on your cell? Do you sincerely NEED TO browse the Internet while slogging through 50 miles of extreme muddy jungle?

{“Wel-commmmme to the jung-gle, we got fun and–video–gamessssssssssss!”}

And just who *are* these blog, Twit, or sweet Tweet “followers” whom you are now Twittering that aren’t, by the way, running right on your heels? Do you imagine countless thousands? Do you actually tell yourself that there truly *are* zillions of “peeps” “out there” who have no life but to sit there, dial up, glom on, and watch YOURS?

{“I wonnnn-der how The Bark-leeeey Vir-gin is doooo-ing now-that-ten-more-sec-onds-have-passsssed?”}

Puh-leeeeeease, Mr. Modern-day Postmaster Descendant of Ben Franklin, those countless thousands of your presumed followers all have their own cell phones, Facebook accounts, MySpace spaces, and the totally frittering capability of sending “You’ve Got Mail!” to all of THEIR imagined countless thousands of followers on Twitter.

{“Maaaaaaay-be I could save min-utesssssss by just sennnnnnd-ding a cyber-post-card?”}

And the hapless results are: everybody’s mailing but nobody’s reading.

{Nexxxxxxxt you’ll-beeeee-Tweeeet-ting Sears cat-a-logggggs!}

So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light, O Faithful Lettercarrier We Forgot to Leave a Christmas Present for, because now you actually, really and truly, get to experience for your very own self precisely *why* the United States Postal Service is going broke. All those trailside tree-mounted mailboxes are being stuffed-to-overflowing ONLY with unopened junk mail, and advertisers are beginning to take the hint. They’re all dropping their presorted prepaid mail accounts and pecking on their cell phones, too.

{Mis-ter Bloggg-ger-Twittttt-ter-Tweeeeeee-ter-Woof-er-MySpacedOut-Facebooker-Whiiiiiiile-Still-Run-ning-in-the-Foot-race Foot-raaaaaaaacer!}

Bud Light beer: we don’t care where they brew it; we just dig their commercials.

( O_O )

Yours troubly,
The Troubadour

Yankee Folly of the Day:
Please don’t “unfriend” me because I’m (at least to *my* countless thousands of totally imaginary lookers and gawkers) “booty-full.”