By Craig P. Dixon, southcoast247.com correspondent Social Commentary 123
August 8, 2007
This week, after five long years, is my last with Myspace. I've finally had
enough of the spammy mailers and increasingly ghetto porny bullshit. It's
time to move the fuck on. But, before I do, let's take a tender look back at
the good ol' days of Myspace.
It used to be that Myspace was known by the artsy few. You browsed people
within a 10-mile radius of the New Bedford area and found no more than 70
profiles. A friend request came from A PERSON YOU ACTUALLY KNEW. Posted
bulletins announced parties, special events, or other pertinent information.
If you had something in your inbox, it was most definitely a real message.
Myspace was the Internet before the assholes and dipshits got to it.
A friend let me in on the Myspace secret. She thought it'd be perfect for
me. And, in quite a few diverse ways, it was. Myspace and I had some good
times together. But not anymore. Our differences are irreconcilable.
What happened to Myspace? Well, like that flat-chested girl who went home
for summer vacation and returned in September with a perky set of C cups,
Myspace got very popular, very fast. And that popularity killed the mystery
of Myspace.
Now, everyone and their fucking Mom (Literally. She's naked.) is on Myspace.
People who think that their shitty lives are important, bulletin-worthy
information have taken to the social-networker like flies to shit, pumping
out dozens of useless "blogs" daily. The dregs of entertainment that is
reality TV has imbedded itself like a tick into the soft side of the
Internet. And there's no getting it out.
Hell, nowadays you've even got Presidential candidates posting profiles on
the fucker. Nothing's freakier than finding a profile for a 70-year-old man
on a social networking site.
Pure Evil
Movies. Bands. Everything's advertising on Myspace. Since 90 percent of
everything is shit, the networker has become hopelessly overpopulated with
delusional turds. Everything's become shit by association.
And I mean everything. Once the smut peddlers sniffed the ripening bouquet
of the panties of Myspace, it's become a grotesque circus sideshow of
carnality. Nearly every one of my current friend requests contains a link to
"photos I can't show on Myspace."
Hey, I've got nothing against porn. But I'll go to you when I want to
procure your services, thank you very much. Not the other way around.
With the porn came the ads, bots, and viruses. It's like 1990s AOL jumped
into Myspace and took over. Issues that I thought had been resolved a decade
before were suddenly back with a vengeance. And though I haven't succumbed
to any, I've grown sick of deleting them.
Finally, over the years, nothing about Myspace has become any more user
friendly. I don't think it was poorly designed. Rather, it was never built
for how big it's become, or kept up with the changing face of the Internet.
Myspace has become so cluttered with the shit of the world wide web that,
like a monstrous dying star, it's collapsed under it's own weight and turned
into a black hole, indiscriminately sucking up everything and anything in
the vicinity. And I'm getting the fuck out of it.
Before it's too late.
This week, after five long years, is my last with Myspace. I've finally had
enough of the spammy mailers and increasingly ghetto porny bullshit. It's
time to move the fuck on. But, before I do, let's take a tender look back at
the good ol' days of Myspace.
