In Place of Scurrilous Venom

In reaction to any questionable statement or activity, social media users can create huge waves of outrage within just a few hours. These so-called online firestorms pose new challenges for marketing communications.

I signed up for twitter shortly after the intrepid Kathleen Parker syndicated one of her columns about signing up for it. There is no question as to its utility as an aggregate, no question as to its marketing value, nor its power for social agitation, though if I asked my followers to put an uncouth nigger aide who has been giving me my latest set of housing problems in his place, non-interference then suddenly becomes an issue of proactive removal: no, I'm not asking for that, I made a scene, and the misogynist ape filth wilted like a toddler. I'm still placing the finishing touches on putting his underclass balls in a very overclass vise, but this is where I'm at now, just under the half way mark to 60.

In the historical timeline, twitter governance seems to float on an uneasy median of contradiction, with special rules for obscenity, brands, proportionality of the ratio between following and followers, which, under some bizarre rationale, can be "bought". What is that, a status and prestige issue of some sort? Or tweets get promoted, for a fee. All this hardware, all this wireless technology, and all it comes down to is whose hustle supersedes, even if, for a time, this includes the unexpected combat between digital executives and a resurgent medieval code of conduct (ISIS), with both corrupted by liquidity.

As with much of the old guard giving way, even though I'm an unquestionably active presence on the micro blogger, landing ineffectual, sometimes excessive blows, I have no desire to follow 100k in accounts to get 75k in return, and remain diffident about platforms and coding tools: I just read what I read in people: Melissa is a less aggrandized version of Soon-yi and Woody Allen, her partner Mike nothing more than a baboon whose gravitations are led by his penis for Asian pussy, something which has been playing out between Caucasian men and Asian women since Japan was opened at a bayonet's receiving end. I may have curbed my acerbic starkness, parred it down, but at heart, I basically view Mr. Stiles' tweets on human trafficking as little more than a facade. I haven't been particularly supercilious about it due to his staying power, and of course, modern slavery isn't dungeons and dragons, but as African Americans in North Philadelphia answer their own sense of worth with either fatalism or brutality, like Erik's aide harassing me in public space (I wonder if my family would put up with living with corrupt homosexuals who destroyed careers, only to have to deal with this belligerence, no less), how can I give a fuck about social media's victim badges, when I cannot close the door on my own?