The Internet is kind of like those machines for making slurpees that you see in drug stores. You know, those clear plastic boxes with the rotating cylinder that keep the slush frozen but not solid. The web is an ever-revolving slurry of brightly colored garbage that is kind of satisfying, but mostly it rots your guts and costs four dollars and gives you brain freeze if you get greedy. Flavored nonsense goes in, frozen nonsense comes out.
Not here, of course.
I was pleading with my coworker. "Help me. Tell me a word. Any word. Or a phrase. To write about," I begged, because apparently I have no mind of my own. (And I love her.) "Okay! Any word? And you have to write about it?" she asks.
I sense she has some devilish suggestion in mind. Like thermodynamics or penis or Robert Pattison. Except I wasn't thinking of thermodynamics or Robert Pattison at the time. "You can't use cock," I tell her, smugly. She arches an eyebrow, which she's really good at. "Or and. Or the," I hasten to add. "Those totally don't count." She just stares at me. "Idiot," she says.
And then she says, "Oh I know, let's ask mystery google."If you don't know, and I didn't, http://www.mysterygoogle.com/ is a site that looks just like Google, but the schtick is that once you type in your query and hit enter, the site cunningly gives you the search results for the last thing that was searched. Hilarity presumably ensues forthwith.
So Peaches and I typed in some crap or another, and this is what we got (I blacked out the number):
...Yeah, exactly. Ahaha.
Nonetheless, in the interest of journalistic seriousness, I accepted the mission. Plus, Peaches made me. I got on skype and texted: "Hi! I'm gay! Well, not really, but google told me to tell you, so that's what I'm doing, you infant. If you get this, tell me. I'd be totally excited." And I gave my email address.
Strangely, that was ages ago and I still haven't gotten anything back. What the hell? You go out of your way to accomplish a Mystery Google mission, and no one even cares enough to send you an amusing ending to your story. Typical.
To be fair, maybe the person that put this mission online added his best friend's phone number, because that's like, totally hilarious. Or his worst enemy's phone number, or his stepmom's phone number. Because actually, oh shit, its probably some kid. If his mom got it (am I wrong to assume the writer is a pimply adolescent boy?), I hope she put two and two together and yelled at him, which he totally deserves, since he didn't bother to send me a thank you note after I went to the trouble of doing his stupid mission. On the other hand, when she asked about it he probably did the right thing and blamed it on someone he hates.
Although actually, it was probably his best friend, who totally has a crush on his bb's MILF. Because the perp is probably in, like, the eighth grade. Where the sprout of sexuality has not yet seen the sun but it's germinating like a wild beast anyway, cheerily exploding tendril after tendril into wrong, dark places, and you end up doing bizarre things like thinking it would be totally hysterical if your friend's hot mom got a text from someone who's (*snort*) gay! Haha. Little perv. Yeah. That totally explains why I haven't got any email. Um. Because I sound like a freak who's sending sick texts to some zitty adolescent.
Or the kid really did send his own phone number, and is just too lazy to write an email. Or he's pissed that I called him an "infant," although really, only a total infant would be pissed about that.
Or, come to think of it, maybe the mission came from some pathetic loser in her mid-twenties who hopes that soliciting such a text on Mystery Google is so tragically lame that it's awesome again, and will make for a sort of meta-cool story and she'll write about it and it'll be totally fabulous and everyone will be like, ooh, you're so meta-cool. Stupid bitch.