It started simply enough: I wanted Post Malone, an accomplished musical artist and memelord to follow me on Twitter. My initial idea was to ask someone larger to follow me, like DJ Trump himself, then offer it to Post. I figured Mr. Malone would be jealous and follow me back. The idea failed, and to this day my follower list has not been graced by the likes of Post Malone.
After 24 hours, upon coming to terms with the fact that Post would not follow me back but instead ignore me like a soccer mom at a beggar's intersection, I decided to loft my goal. Instead of a memelord, I'd get the world's most powerful person to follow me back.
It's all about street cred. A person's worth is determined by their Twitter followers. I tried the same tweet again, this time replying to one of his tweets. Maybe a direct reply would catch his attention. But alas, the Trumpmeister didn't listen. On the bright side, four people liked it, and that's just great. You guys are great. Thanks, guys. I appreciate you.
The next two were still simple. A simple plea for recognition. I threw in a pinch of human interest to appeal to his soft interior lurking beneath an excess of orange flesh. My premise: I'm a sad, lonely man who just wants friends. The reality of the claim helped my story, too. But that didn't sway him either. Donald J. Trump was still not following me.
I grew angry with Don. I wanted a follow back. I lashed out at sweet Donnie. However, I stand by my statement. Political beliefs aside, his Twitter message is unclear and muddled with all the stagnant bacteria festering behind his largemouth bass lips, much like chew spit. His thoughts flow effortlessly from his noggin onto Twitter like musical notation from a prodigious composer tapping the well of inspiration. But they shouldn't. Regardless, DJT still didn't follow me. I pressed on, ever the wiser, ever the resilient.
Donald, the bill can wait. What could not wait, I'm afraid, were my exams. My finals were imminent, along with my stress. I needed luck, and I needed it from the man with the power to end the world in a fiery hailstorm of nuclear explosion. I figured by now Don and I were on a "cool initials instead of names" basis. He'd be DJ, I'd be KN. Together we'd chill on the stoop and wreck havoc in our neighborhood, all while wearing the flyest kicks and the phattest pants. But distaster struck before the dream became a reality: he didn't follow me back.
Now it was time to play politics; if the language of sympathy didn't jive with him, I'd have to speak a language he understands. Or doesn't understand, depending on which way you lean. Either way, I thought perhaps a nomination would clinch the follow back. There are few people in this elite club. It consists mostly of Fox News reporters who he knows won't make fun of him for his Twitter wordvomits, the White House Twitter, Mikey P. The Gayhater's Dream, the children he remembers exists, his businesses' Twitter accounts, and Vince McMahon, owner of World Wrestling Entertainment. Next to be added to the list: your boy Niles.
Well, chums, he didn't take the bait. Instead, he ignored me like he always does. It's like the tens of thousands of replies he receives to every tweet is too much for him to read or something. Next I wanted him to know I could be trusted. I've never leaked before, and I never will, should J. Trump trust me with his tweets. Maybe Don would even appoint me as the new FBI director? I mean I'm trustworthy enough, nearly as handsome as Comey, and the thought of testifying at a Senate intelligence hearing makes me so sick with anxiety that I would never do anything wrong. I can't even talk in a college class of 30 people, let alone a room full of old people who look at you like you took one too many of their butterscotch candies.
Perhaps the most sacred of days could convince him to follow me back. It was my birthday, and I went out all out with my appeal to his emotions. In this tweet, I was playing the role of myself, but without having received a birthday wish from any of my friends. Also my dog hated me. Nobody can say no to a sad, lonely man on his birthday, abandoned by his friends, loathed by his animal companion. Imagine, if you will, a man, alone, blowing out a single candle on a cupcake, his face dimly lit by flame's soft glow, his dog sitting the corner, glaring angrily at him. The man begins to sob softly. He ponders: how had his life come to this? "If only," he thinks to himself, "the 45th President of the United States followed me on Twitter."
To be continued, since he has not followed me back yet. Donnie, if you're reading this, follow me back please.
No comments:
Post a Comment