So I was listening to Brad Paisley this evening and lo and behold I had a blog entry form just like that.
"Online"
I work down at the pizza pit
And I drive an old Hyundai
I still live with my mom and dad
I'm 5'3 and overweight
I'm a Sci-Fi fanatic
Mild asthmatic
Never been to 2nd base
But there's a whole nother me
That you need to see
Go check out MySpace
'cause online I'm down in Hollywood
I'm 6'5 and I look damn good
I drive a Maserati
I'm a black belt in Karate
And I love a good glass of wine
It turns girls on that I'm mysterious
I tell 'em I don't want nothing serious
'cause even on a slow day I can have a three way
Chat with two women at one time
I'm so much cooler online
So much cooler online
I get home, I kiss my mom
And she fixes me a snack
I head down to my basement bedroom
And fire up my Mac
In real life the only time I
Ever even been to L.A.
Was when I got the chance with the marching band
To play tuba in the Rose Parade.
Online I live in Malibu
I posed for Calvin Kline, I've been in GQ
I'm single and I'm rich
And I got a set of six pack abs that'll blow your mind
It turns girls on that I'm mysterious
I tell 'em I don't want nothing serious
'cause even on a slow day I can have a three way
Chat with two women at one time
I'm so much cooler online
Yeah I'm cooler online
When you got my kinda stats, it's hard to get a date
Let alone a real girlfriend
But I grow another foot
And I lose a bunch of weight every time I log in
Online I'm out in Hollywood
I'm 6'5 and I look damn good
Even on a slow day, I can have a three way
Chat with two women at one time
I'm so much cooler online
Yeah I'm cooler online
I'm so much cooler online
Yeah I'm cooler online
Obviously, I'm doing something wrong, because here I am...online, with a my space page yet I'm still as uncool and unhip as humanly possible.
I don't know, maybe my uber-geek tendencies comes forth in spades on my profile which keeps me from being in the freezer section of cool here in cyber-ville.
Who doesn't love a good comic book, video game or cartoon?
Just because I know who Gordon Shumway is that should not keep me from the hallowed halls of coolness university.
So what if I still have the He-Man and the Masters of the Universe opening from the cartoon memorized. This should not disqualify me from being part the gang from Cools-ville.
Or because the closest I get to exercise is watching the Claudia Schiffer workout tapes. Is this enough evidence to be judged and to be found lacking the coolness gene that would make me the envy of every kid in town?
I feel so left out.
I want to be iceberg lettuce cool too.
I want to be able to take a trip to Iceland, and have the natives look at me and say...
"WOW! We will have to change the name of our little country to Jose-Land, because Jose is way cooler than ice."
I want to be so cool that when I walk into the zoo, penguins, polar bears and all of the other arctic aminals look start following me home because I remind them of their motherlands.
I want to be so cool that I can single handedly go into the land of glaciers and snow and with just my presence, which reeks of awesome coolness, undo all the damage global warming has done.
After that Vanilla Ice will only want to be called Vanilla because he will have to give up the Ice part of his name, because compared to me he is no longer "Cool as Ice."
I'll have to call every weather man when ever I leave my house to let them know that a "COOL" front is on the move.
I want to be so cool that even cool people will have to pay me royalties for allowing them even a minute amount of coolness.
As a matter of fact I want to be so cool, that people start replacing the word cool with Jose.
Or maybe I just thought that was a really silly song...
until I remembered all that I have witnessed on here. I remembered a blog I read that mentioned about how fake people are on here
Wow, you mean there are people online that aren't truthful?!!!
Then the song took a whole different meaning. Now it's not as funny as it was when I first heard it.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment