Everyone needs to grab their collective sacs, be a goddamned grown up, and stop taking these fucking Facebook quizzes to unearth which fictional character they’d most likely be if fake life became real life and somehow your real life of administrative clerk in a cubicle driving your kids around the suburbs in a minivan was the Star Wars equivalent of “I’m Queen Amidala!” The fuck you are. I’ve seen Star Wars and I’m pretty sure Padme Amidala is an iron-willed bitch working to maintain the peace of an intergalactic star system of miscellaneous species of life forms, banging one of the baddest mutherfuckers in that star system, sexifying vampire chic like you read about, and later having scorching hot lesbo sex with Mila Kunis (yeah, totally different movie, whatever, still one of the biggest game-changer scenes in cinematic history). If in your mind that is essentially the same thing as trying on jeans at Kohl’s, delivering Capri Sun and orange slices to youth league soccer, and having sloppy date night sex with your husband while the kids are trying to psychologically bury their confused horror down the hall…..then I am here to point out the turd, floating, in your punch bowl. Sorry Kelly Johnson, but Padme Amidala you ain’t. You’re probably one of the robots in the background of some random scene, sorting a conveyor belt of spare parts set to be smelted into some other robot. Likely not a cool fighting robot either, but some robot like you that sorts other parts for other boring, mundane parts of life. And that is okay. Eventually something you sort for smelting that also sorts for smelting will result in the smelting of something that maybe works on the assembly line for the company that manufactures light sabers. And then you’ve had a small part in the light saber wielded by Padme Amidala’s Jedi slam piece, which is kinda cool. It is a story for book club (aka get hammered on wine with no kids or husbands around night) at minimum. Probably at maximum. But you’ve got that going for you, and no one can take it away.
“I took the Game of Thrones personality quiz and guess what, I’m Tyrion Lannister!” I’m unsure where to begin here, but suffice it to say you are pretty fucking far from Tyrion Lannister. Let’s cover the most obvious and in-your-face reason that you are not Tyrion Lannister from Game of Thrones: You’re a fucking idiot. Tyrion possesses an extremely high intellect which enables him to manipulate people to do his bidding and to remain several moves ahead of his opponents in the chess match of power struggle that exists in his world. You have to break out your iPhone and use the calculator app to determine what a 15% tip is on a $100.00 restaurant bill. You told your wife you got home extra late because you and the guys went to Waffle House to sober up after golf, this while she stared at the fresh lipstick and glitter on your collar and smelled the distinct odor of stripper snatch disinfectant wipes emanating from your person. When the cute Brazilian intern working at your company on a visa didn’t understand your attempts to flirt with her in the office kitchen, you responded by speaking Spanish louder. Tyrion is brave and demonstrates giant balls in the face of adversity. You order shots at the bar that have cherry flavored liquor mixed with Red Bull because you think whiskey tastes “burny”. You quit going to the gym altogether because your personal trainer asked you to do some burpees and you thought they were too hard. Earlier in the month you allowed a single girl 12 years your junior to take the leadership role in a work project your boss presumed you would lead, because she was mean. Once a summer you let your father-in-law bump you off the grill, at your house, because he thinks you’re fucking it up. And finally, Tyrion is a dwarf. You are 6 feet tall and have a sloppy, fat body gut that for reasons unbeknownst to all you feel should be adorned in pleated khakis and sweat-wicking golf shirts that frankly do a pretty fucking shitty job of wicking your armpit and under-tit sweat. Tyrion is twice the man at 3’6″ than you are at 6’0″. Hell, his dick’s probably just as big as yours. Tyrion would dominate you and your asshat friends so profoundly at your lame ass poker night that he’d end up winning your house, wife and kids, and would only let you crash in the attic room above the garage because he has a soft spot for losers. But sure, go ahead and let your 400 “friends” know that if we all woke up tomorrow morning in the midst of Game of Thrones, you’d be the intellectual dwarf who bends men thrice his size to his will. It is totally plausible.
When I got strong-armed into joining Facebook it stood for things. It was about trying to get laid using an online medium because you’re too big a pussy to do it up close where people can smell the fear on your breath. It was about people who were as mentally stable as a heated-up atom of uranium having public meltdowns about the guy they were fucking whom they incorrectly presumed was their soul mate. It was people passively-aggressively sniping others from afar because they were too cowardly to confront someone to their face. Now it has degenerated into these embarrassing personality quizzes, regrettable postcard thingy’s where a Donna Reed looking bitch from 1952 makes some sassy quip about how she gets wasted and runs her mouth any time she feels like it, and people who voted for one side or the other of the United States political oligarchy claiming that the other side of the no choice system are idiots. It’s enough to make you want to send a password recovery email so you can log back into your fucking MySpace page.