The Definitive Definition of PWNED

Dear POTUS B-HO,

Please make this guy your PWNED Czar. Maybe he can help us PWN Kim Jong-il by catapulting Dikembe Mutombo into the stratosphere so he can smack those missiles out of the air. He would then perform his obligatory finger-wag and get called for an automatic technical. That would be some massive geopolitcal PWNage.

Either that or stamp a permanent red-ink "PWNED" on Sarah Palin's face.

The end.

Sincerely,
Boogie Brown

Who Watches the Workers?

Yesterday, El Presidente hosted a live streaming online town hall forum. 'Net-heads (as opposed to net-head, i.e. a fellatious act with Vince Carter) submitted questions online that were voted on by other 'net-heads. The most popular questions were addressed by B-HO.

I really wanted to submit the AOL chatroom-inspired question "A/S/L?" Either that or "Mr. President, can you once and for all please provide the definitive definition of 'PWN'?" Unfortunately, I got sidetracked finding out my Mexican wrestler name (me llaman EL GIGOLO MISTERIO) and forgot to submit anything.

In one response to a question on public school reform, The Rock Obama recounted a conversation with Bill Gates about using video recordings of teachers to analyze their classroom performance, similar to athletes reviewing game tapes. And I thought to myself: B-HO is a total voyeur...and the most likeable Big Brother ever.

Could you imagine?? Cameras monitoring your every activity in the workplace?? And then you have to review the game tape with your supervisors???

"Wow, Jimster, two straight hours of scrabulous? That is highly unproductive, and you failed to utilize the open triple word score. FAIL."

"Meg, why did you clip your toenails at your desk and save all the clippings in your bottom desk drawer? That is highly unhygienic."

"Cornelius, watching youtube videos of people FAILing at life like that toddler getting kicked in the face by a breakdancer in Times Square is not considered research...By the way, can you forward me that link?"

"And as for you Kat, don't ever lend me one of your pens ever again. That's just down right filthy."

"Jesus, The Brian, we're not paying you to write blog entries all day! ...But perhaps somebody should. You're one talented dude. Cowabunga!"

Let's hope the new administration doesn't one up the PATRIOT ACT and start spying on us at work under the guise that it'll improve our performance. Because otherwise, we might have to actually start doing...gulp...work.

So You Think You Can Get Down With The Get Down?

In the midst of interpersonal communication, people ask me all the time, either with cautious self-awareness, "Are you gonna blog about this?" or with blind confidence, "You should blog about this." And my inner monologue often responds with the question: "Waitaminute, did I leave the oven on??? Damnit! Nobody likes burnt cookies! NOBODYYY!!!"....Once the voices in my head quiet down, I remember that I am in the middle of a conversation and that the person(s) in front of me have requested that our moment together be launched from reality and into virtual insanity. For some reason, people want to be memorialized this way, that their consciousness be captured in literary eternity, and like a Shakespearean sonnet, live beyond their own mortality. Either that or the fuckers think they're funny enough for The Get Down.

So you want me to swallow your conversation cakes and shit out an entry? Is there a lot of cream in those cakes? because I just might. Afterall, I am lactose intolerant and prone to writer's block (it's like a lego stuck in my brain), so who knows, perhaps I will.

To help you on this journey, I'm providing you some surefire tips (Is there such a thing as unsurefire? Like an ambivalent flame?) on getting your ass into my blogosphere (not to be confused with my Blog o' Spheres, my online journal solely about the spherical things in my life--basketballs, tennis balls, semen balls, grapes):

Tip # Uno: Scruples? Forget them. Instead, try taking Screw Pills and just let your words fly. If the shit that comes out of your mouth is nastier than what comes out of your ass, you're probably on to something. (Could you imagine a shit literally coming out of your mouth??? hahaha, holy shit that'd be amazing!)

Tip Number Dos: Practice those pop culture references! You make something instantly funnier by the mere mention of Alf from the planet Melmac or Balky Bartakomus from the island of Mepos. Or if you prefer, constantly quote hilarious lines from movies rather than using your own words. Trust me, they're probably a lot funnier than anything you'd possibly come up with. Try starting with Mel Brooks or Will Ferrell. "I'm Tits Mcgee?"

Teep Tatlo: Be punny! Be Big Pun (just don't die...of fatness...too soon?). Be mindful of your grammar and use proper PUNctuation. Be a liberal PUNdit. So eQUIP yourself with all the lame PUNchlines you got and don't forget good comedic timing--be PUNctual--and you may find your words Getting Down.

Tip F-F-F-Four! Introduce me to all your single, attractive female friends. (single is optional)

Tip Numerical Cinco: Apply to be an intern at The Get Down.

• Duties include: writing entries and giving me 100% of the credit, Sisyphusian tasks such as rolling a boulder up a hill over and over, looking up the word Sisyphusian and adding the definition by hand to a single square of toilet paper so that my Word of the Day TP includes this obscure term, tickle fights, more tickle fights but with strangers while I watch ominously from afar, transcribing the complete works of Judd Apatow into Aramaic (I always wanted to know what it would sound like if Jesus said, "Nobody's gotten a handjob in cargo shorts since 'Nam.")
  

• Qualifications: complete obedience and submission to the Boogie

Tip Numbro 6: Wear a life jacket because life jackets are good protection. "Yeah, like stheatbeltsth in a car!"



Simply master these 6 things and you immediately increase your chances of making it on to The Get Down from about 0% to 1.2%. Happy blogging!

Fun with Online Communication Questions of the Day

Does Will Smith run a secret wordpress where he writes entries as "I Am The Legend of Blogger Vance"?

Does Parker Brothers run a live journal about board games under the name "Bloggle"?

Does Oscar-winning director of Crouching Tiger and Brokeback Mountain post online about how he's a fuckup in life as "xAnga Lee"?

Does the wife a former Democratic Vice President tweet constant status updates about the environment as "Twipper Gore"?

Can I instant message the rehab reject, black-soul imitating singer "AIMeeWinehouse" and tell her to lay off the smack?

Is America's Best Dance Crew as articulate with their words as they are with their bodies when they live journal as the "Jabbabloggeez"?

Can I find the twitter page of London white-boy rapper under the name "The STweets"?

Does the baddest badass in history Chuck Norris send SMS messages as "Walker Textas Ranger"? The only text you will ever get from Chuck Norris is 'Look behind you.' This is also the last text you will ever get.

Can I friend the dejected Giants wide receiver "Plaxo-co Burress" over an online social networking site and remind him to keep the safety on?

Does the pope only follow one person on Twitter because he believes in "monotweetism"? However, that's a concept I still don't understand because the 'one' person is really three people updating. He says that I just need to have faith in the "Holy Tweetnity."

And the winner is...

It's a historic victory today as we have the first hands down, unanimous decision in the "Who Should I Date?" love connection competition. The people have spoken, and they agree: they really don't give a crap about their ex-girlfriends. In fact, some are straight up vindictive and seem to subscribe to the belief that dating me would be just punishment for their former lovers. I don't see how that line of reasoning makes any sense considering that I am the world's greatest lover since Ma-Ti of the Planeteers..."HEART!"....on second thought, most of his "heart" went to an adorable monkey Kukuphat in a not-so-beastiality way whatsoever....Whatever, my statement still stands.



But anyway, the people seem to think better their ex than their current. So be it. As long you don't suddenly get jealous by your ex's newfound adoration for me, my wordsmithing, and my uncanny ability to make even the most mundane moments awkward ("oh my, Ex-gf's mom, you have a great handshake. I bet that grip is how you found your husband"), then it's all good in the hood.

So congrats to the reviled ex for being our first unanimous victor in this vaginous competition. She's luckier than you think. And I probably won't "rip her a new one" as requested by one jaded voter, but I will B my L all over her T's. (translation: B=Broil; L=Lemon-marinated pork; T's=Thermal insulated state-of-the-art ovens...She's got a great kitchen.)

====
In a post-game interview, your current girlfriend expressed no sense of deflation over the matter.

In Your Dreams!

While nodding off in my cubicle with my head knocking into the wall every 10 seconds, I suddenly came to the realization that yes, in fact, Trix really are for kids. Silly rabbit, when will you ever learn?

That lucid moment between dreaming and waking led me to a second realization, namely that for the past two nights, Barack Obama, POTUS B-HO himself, has appeared in my dreams. And no, these were not dreams of the illicit variety that leave me lying in bed wet and covered in shame. These were the typical atypical dreams that weave together many strands of consciousness, creating a new reality that is both familiar and wildly insane. Kind of like when you're high off absinthe and find yourself making out with your best friend's girlfriend, only she's later revealed to be her mother and not actually her.

In the first cameo by our President, on a Gran Torino-like lawn, he was sadly gunned down by the same Asian thugs that took down Clint. "You bastards! You killed Barry!" I yelled. I then remember my mind's eye, omniscient as it is, following Hilary Clinton as she scrambled into the house trying to find cover. Only it wasn't exactly Hilary. She looked more like Marilyn Monroe with a goldilocks afro. And even more frightening, I percieved her as the First Lady. I never felt so emotionally distraught over a Clinton before.

The next evening, again 'Bam the Man snuck into my dreamscape. This time he served as some sort of guide at what I think was a museum. Or maybe it was a church. Or a White Castle. I really don't know. In any case, his main role that night was to speak very condescendingly to my office's most condescending, know-it-all employee. He layeth the smack down on her, belittling her while explaining a map on the wall. I think my subconcious was telling me that next time I need to talk back to a co-worker and cut em down to size, just call El Presidente (translation: The Presidente) and he'll take care of it. I wonder if he's also available for family reunions.

As cool as it initially was hosting the POTUS in his guest roles as assasination victim and tour-guide asshole, I am disconcerted by the fact that this guy's face is truly ubiquitous. He shows up everywhere. On people's chests, on shirt lapels, in store windows, on magazine covers, framed on walls, on my boxer briefs, on the boobtube (the word "boobtube" is a lot awesomer than what it signifies btw; c'mon, a tube full of boobs!), and now you can see him 24-7 since he haunts your dreams too. Kim Jong Il, Fidel Castro, meet your match. B-HO puts the 'brother' back in Big Brother, and now he's the biggest brother on the block.

I used to be overly concerned and paranoid about the PATRIOT ACT enabling the government to look at what books I borrow from the liberry, but this is on a completely new level of surveillance. Barack Obama isn't just checking my liberry records, he's actually in my mind checking my fantasies! It's like he appointed Rick Moranis to the head of Fringe sciences and had himself shrunken down to the size of a lego. Then he crawled into my ear canal while I was sleeping, and now the sly bastard is wreaking havok in slumberland. It's only a matter of time until he starts invading my waking life consciousness and starts controlling my actions. It's like the opposite of Being John Malkovich--Barack Obama Being You!

Next thing you know I'll be talking....gasp....professorially! And I'll start giving loved ones....gasp....fist bumps! And ohmygosh I might actually start....gasp....being a productive member of society!!! The end is nigh, folks, the end is nigh...

Who should I date? #5!

It's March Madness folks, but the madness is just continuing here at The Get Down. Bracketology doesn't only pertain to basketball; it's also about the competition for companionship. We have 64 women competing head-to-head in a do-or-die tournament for the ultimate prize: my everlasting affection (and by everlasting, I mean about 3 weeks worth). We've already witnessed a few upsets, some cinderellas, and monumental beatings as several competitors have advanced to the second round including the Green M&M, Eva Mendes, Wonder Woman, and the Lucky Golden Money Cat Found in Chinese Restaurants. And here we are again, in the midst of yet another heated first round matchup (as opposed to ketchup). As usual, the readers decide their fate. So, who will it be folks? Who should I date??

Your Ex-Girlfriend
Why I like her: She really despises you for breaking up with her via a post-it note, and your current happiness is burning her inside, not to mention that that chlamydia you gave her is burning her outsides. She wants nothing more than revenge by emotionally cracking you open with an emotional sledge hammer. So what better way to get her last laugh than to have a fling with your best friend...Me! There's not a thing she wouldn't do with me just to get back at you. I could take her to Comic Con, a 3D animated movie, a Magic: The Gathering tournament. There's nothing she wouldn't do...Not to mention, that while you two dated, I secretly longed for her. That's a weird saying, "longing" for someone. It's not like she made me get taller. Then again, maybe only a certain part of me got taller, HEYYOOOO!!! And no worries about the chlamydia. I already have it from borrowing your towel.

OR

Your Current Girlfriend
Why I like her: I've witnessed how happy she makes you, and I want in. It's not everyday I come across a woman like her. She's teeming with a quiet confidence that lets you know everything's gonna be ok. She's always there for you in your times of need but never crowds your personal space. She's gentle to the touch but firm enough to support you. And she really goes with the flow. You can take her anywhere, on business trips, on vacations. It doesn't matter because there's no stress with her, only relief and release. And she's the first airhead that I could really appreciate. It's not fair that you keep her entirely to yourself, locked away in the false bottom of your closet. How could you be so inhumane? She mustn't be hidden away. Someone like her could make the whole world a happier place. One look at her, and you just gotta smile.

Toxic Withdrawal Non-Question of the Day

She dumped you for another man---nay, another woman, and not just any woman, but Martha Stewart. You got laid off--nay, you were fired for secretly buying Saved By the Bell memorabilia with the company credit card. Boy were they pissed when it turned out that those Buddy Bands were knockoffs. You came home to find that your dog shat on your only pair of Jordans--nay, your only pair of contacts. Now you only see shit. You opened your mail to learn that you're being evicted--nay, an archeological team has discovered your home is built over sacred Navajo burial ground and that ghosts have been scratching themselves with your toothbrush while you sleep. This just isn't your day--nay, it just hasn't been your decade.

Who are the only friends you turn to? The 3 J's of drowned sorrows: Johhny Walker, Jack Daniels, and Justin Timberlake of course (you like to bring sexy back while you drink). The ensuing amount of debauchery is enough to sink a small island in the Pacific; you're drinking a flood and crying a river.

You awake the next morning to the jackhammering chirps of small birds while the sun is bitch-smacking you worse than Slickback...ahem, excuse me, A Pimp Named Slickback. You are lying on the curb outside of your building with your blog and twitters hanging out while the joggers hop over you like you're mere dog shit.

And then it hits you. That incessant pulsation in your abdomen, the uncontrollable sweat dripping down your neck, the ubelievable pounding in your head as if your brain is trying to escape that sinking ship...here it comes...it's in your throat...you can't suppress it...you just gotta...PROJECTILE VOMIT ALL OVER THE STREET!!! And you're still wretching on the curb. You don't even feel relieved. You're actually quite dizzy right now and all you can smell is the hard-boiled egg you had for breakfast two days ago.

You, sir, are hung-over. That of course is very different from being over-hung. Only animals in the horse family are over-hung. And hang-over is also not like a fly-over modified. It's not like you're holding onto a rope strapped to a plane flying across the Garden State. Nor is it like a layover (which rarely involves getting laid) or a sleepover (which sometimes is the result of getting laid). No, instead, you're "hanging" your body over a toilet, a bathtub, a balcony, expunging last night's liquid courage out your face-hole until your eyes are bloodshot and you pass out.

You also have a rain cloud of misery "hanging over" your head for the rest of day because you, sir, feel worse than Charlie Brown. That cloud is following you like a jealous ex and pouring acid drops of hurtin' all over your dome. It ain't leaving until you get rid of the toxins still "hanging" out in your body and "over"-staying their welcome. You raid the fridge for gatorade and leftover pepperoni pizza. You sandwich three slices together and dip them into the neon blue sea of electrolytes. You throw it down your mouth and swallow like a Hunt's Point hooker. Before the Itis kicks in, you stumble to your bed--nay, you crawl on your stomach while having flashbacks of 'Nam (i.e. last night's car bombs with your Viet friend Phoek). Now, as you lay there nestled in Egyptian cotton, with half your body "hanging over" the edge, your heavy eyelids "hanging over" your vision balls, you remember that once upon time, week in and week out, you used to do this...for fun.

Suck My Tweets

First it was AOL profiles. Next was Asian Ave. Then it was Friendster. Followed by Xanga. Then MySpace. Soon to be dominated by Facebook. And subsequently Blogger and sometimes Youtube. Now it's Twitter. Yes, that's right, I'm on Twitter (http://www.twitter.com/Boogie_Brown). It's official folks, I have no social life. (But I suppose that was the case pre-CompuServe days anyway.) I am completely hooked up to the Matrix right now, and any and all resistance is ultimately futile. You might as well call me Boogie Borg. (Yes, a Star Trek TNG reference right after a Matrix ref. I'm really embracing my inner geeksta.)

I am now transforming my daily mundane thoughts and experiences into cyber descriptions of my mundane thoughts and experiences, and guess what? They go straight to your cell phone! Now I can annoy you from anywhere in the world! This is clearly the work of some deviant megalomaniacal super-villain. Lex Luther wishes he created something half as twistedly brilliant.

I haven't quite mastered the 140-character tweet yet, but I think I'm doing moderately well. Here's a sample of some of the twitterific tweets you're currently missing out on:

"Do you ever wonder what it feels like to be on the other side of a Care Bear stare? I'd prolly jiz out a heart."

"I wonder if Mike Tyson is on twitter. Who wouldn't want updates about his threats to stomp on your children's testicles?"

"If i were to get a face tattoo, it'd be microscopic so that from afar it looks like a mole but under magnifying glass you'd see my portrait."

"Ugh, in Philly. Don't get me wrong, I like Philly but it's like the training bra of big cities."

"The woman that just walked by me had the deepest voice I ever heard. Waitaminute..."

"I think dmetri martin is biting my shit...not to say he's a fecal eater, but that his comedy seems like it straight from me blahg."

So hurry up and let me tweet you all day into twitterdom, yout twitterful little twitt. (http://www.twitter.com/Boogie_Brown)