In the town of Spacefaceville, you can spread your thoughts via a chain letter-like conglomeration of “friends.”  There is no limit or restraint on the number, or type of people whose space you can invade with your face.  Before you can start hoarding faces, you have to either successfully request a virtual friendship, or accept a request to have your space invaded by another face.  Once your request is accepted, or Miami vice versa, your space for faces will start to fill up quicker than a frat boy pouring hooch into a cooler (or so I have been told).  A large percentage of the faces you will add to your space are people you’ve known for a long time.  You’ve got your high school classmate face, college classmate face, co-worker face, family face, and the ever popular long lost friend face.  Those are all good forms of faces to keep in your space.  For me, it’s the anonymous/unknown faces requesting to RAM into my space that are the strangest.

On the average, I get about three requests a week for space from faces I’ve never met in high or low places.  I have less of an idea who these faces are, and how they know my face, than a drunkard knows where the vomit stain on his pant leg came from.  When it comes to accepting or denying a face’s request for space, I always have a hard time saying no.  My theory is, expose as many spaces and faces to my nuttiness as spaces will allow.  I’m taking over cyberspace one face at a time.  Before you know it, all websites will have more metaphors than something they can be compared to.  Run-on sentences will become the Norm, as opposed to the Cliff, because it will be easier to express one’s face out in space without observing the laws of “grammar” and “punctuation.”  The one drawback is that it may become tough to determine where one thought begins, and when your patience with the sentence ends.

One of the most interesting things about accepting unknown faces from space is the post-acceptance attempt to figure out who in the hell this person is.  This is usually accomplished by staring at their face whenever you’re in your space.  It’s kinda like staring at a face in an effort to determine if that porn stache-havin’, raincoat-wearin’, coke bottle glasses-havin’ weirdo across the street who drives the van with tinted windows is the same face you saw on the Most Wanted poster at the Post Office.  As a sidecar, I’ve always wondered why wanted posters are hung up all over Post Offices?  Do people on the run regularly check their PO Box?  Do fugitives have responses to fan mail they’ve just got to get out before crossing another state’s line?  I’d think it would be more productive to put fugitives’ pictures in porn shops, bowling alleys, truck stops, trailer parks, and Chuck E. Cheese.  You could also probably catch a whole mess of ‘em if you ran the fingerprints of all carnival and county fair migrants who come to town.  You could also finally be able to tell the difference between a midget and a dwarf based on this analysis.  That is, of course, as long as the corn dog residue build-up doesn’t skew the results.  You’d be amazed at the build-up of corn dog grease that will collect under the fingernails of someone who is a true believer in the “Guess Your Weight” lifestyle.

I tell you this, I wished I had known about all these single faces that sometimes show up on the right side of my space in my pre-married years.  I seriously doubt any of them would have ever allowed me to put my face into their space, but you can always dream.  You catch that?  I nude you wood.  Whoever came up with the idea of trading faces to all kinds of different spaces is the Larry Flynt of cyber socializing.  Like Larry, someone took a lot of faces and showed their spaces.  There it was again.  I’m the Kevin Nealon of subliminal sexual innuendo.  If you don’t get it, there is no need to jump out the window.  Anyway, I guess my face enjoys sharing space with other faces, because I seem to devote a lot of time to my space.  Once you get started, collecting faces for your space is more addictive than masturbating.  Seriously, who has only done it once?

When you’re wasting time social networking with the aid of a machine, have you ever noticed all this advertising shit in the right hand column - namely the ones that pop up every time you open your Facebook page?  On mine, at least, it is always some hot, big-boobed chick telling me I should read through their classifieds, because a girl just like her is going to be all about me.  Gimme a break.  A female that attractive hasn’t looked at me like that since the first time I whacked off to one of the many Playboys I stole from my dad.  Anything with a rack like that usually ends up stuffed, and on some redneck’s wall as a trophy.  Seriously, if I’d ever bagged something like that, it probably would be hanging somewhere on display in my living room.  On a side note, thank Sam Walton that type of taxidermy doesn’t apply to my college days.  If that was the case, my living room would have had to be reinforced with some kind of load bearing material to support some of my conquests.  For every respectable example of collegiate fair, there would probably be at least two that you’d only line the walls of your basement with.  Goddamn Fairness Doctrine.

You know that late night TV has gone to complete shit when you have to cover one eye to view it properly, and what you see out of it is Rocky Balboa.  I mean, was there really even a need for Rocky’s II, III, IV, & V?  Did Rocky want us to believe that Rambo defeated Communism by beating up Ivan Drago?  What the hell?  All of Stallone’s shit seems to run together anyway, so I kept waiting for him to come out of the corner covered in a burlap tarp, with a red sash around his head and an all-purpose blade at his side.  Then you have Mickey Goldmill.  As if Grumpy Old Men wasn’t his coup de grâce, he had to go and star in another popular movie before people started speculatin’ on his inevitable demise.  Burgess Meredith was the equivalent of the modern day stock market, or a whore in a porno.  Everyone knows it is going down on a daily basis, the only question is how far will it go?  And, for a second question that isn’t the “only question”, will they get back up?  I guess that all is determined by whether or not you’re Burgess Meredith or Blow Job Betty, doesn’t it?

Whoever the geezer is that Burgess Meredith is playing also always wears a hearing aid that could be equivocated to an iPhone for retards (except when he was The Penguin).  The wire on that thing is big enough to give power to all of North America.  If he is around during a blackout, power could probably be restored as fast as someone could use flash cards, hand gestures, or strategic punches to get that old fuck to listen.  His hearing aid seriously looked like it is had the cord off a pre-cordless phone.  It’s almost like the trainer guy is tethered to his own gourd by that big ass cord.  When he walks, I keep waiting for it to stretch out, causing his head to be jerked back, and his body to hit the floor.  That thing couldn’t have just been a hearing aid, because it looks like he could pick up both the Secret Service’s feed AND DirecTV’s most premium package.  You are guaranteed not to miss any NFL games on Sunday as long as you get this fool near paned glass, and out of a rainstorm.