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?

Any given Sunday

"The last five essays of writing and difference might be incomprehensible." -- Alan Bass

Me: "She might have been killed.
Frank: "So what?" in reference to Janay Rice, in an afternoon four way argument between me, my dying aunt and her internal adenocarcinoma rotting, and Karina! who telephoned me after being out of town.

Like any failed little boy, Frank defends Ray Rice, and like any fully unrealized woman, I indict Janay for her complicity, and meanwhile, I'll never be able to enjoy football again as a way to communicate with my father. Trouble, these days, trying not to hate my 80 year old parent for my brutalized childhood, but Janay's voice, in this latest national argument we're having about being black, being barbaric, can only be heard once removed: She apologized for her part in an argument where she wound up very much like the canine victims of the Shining Path. She then married her fiance despite the fact that he was charged with aggravated assault, and is now defended by minority proxies on twitter who plead with us about how hard it is to leave abusers. My problem with this is Janay had more privilege than most to decouple herself from her baller. You might ask, given that I'm losing my battle against near absolute indigence within the inexorable grind of the welfare state, if I would have walked out on the rare commodity of the professional athlete, and my answer is yes. I've been incarcerated most of my life, charged with no crime, brutalized by now obsolete orthopedic procedures, sexually assaulted at least four times, also a victim of an aggravated assault, distressed because all ableism now feels like an aggravated assault, and TMZ advocates for the brutalized female far more effectively through the acquisition of security feed better than I can ask anyone reading me to lend me a hand in my last productive years. Yet I keep talking to my ex, who would have strangled his first wife to death, because I don't have a girlfriend to speak to anymore, barring Karina, the dense nice New Church woman. She loves me, she said the last time we parted, prostituting herself for nearly 300 dollars she was neither worth, nor I able to afford, and I am not even in the lesbian slot that oral sex on pussy "feels right" to pull the vapid dialogue from Chasing Amy. Poor Marie now wants to play the pimp for her hospice care.