Donkey Shot

I thought this last night, Twitter is for twits. Really, it reminds me of some processed meat barn, where the soon-to-be-ready meals live out their days in darkness squalking their emptiness to the rafters. It's a gobbling gaggle of useless guff, garbled together for no gain. It's a soulless store of sordid sentences, seemingly supposed to spread sentience. It's a.. well, you get the idea.

But is it? Maybe it's worthwhile. Maybe, just maybe, this is the beginning of our new, superhuman hive mind. Imagine it. Get someone else to imagine it and twit you about it. Can you twit someone? In years to come non-twits may well be hunted down because of the partitioned nature of their minds; their seperate individuality, which they refused to share with the broiling masses. I can't wait. A superhuman hive-mind only capable of saying things like: "I'm off to the shops!" and "OMG, ROFL, Rhianna + Britney naked." If that super-powered glob of brain power should ever come for me, I have a plan. I will trick them with twits. They will be running right for me, when I will twit them saying:

"No, not that way, he's behind you."

Slowly, the amorphous gelatinous blob will reverse its advance, and I will skulk away, still twitting:

"@GelBlob: That's it. You're nearly there."
"@GelBlob: Almost got him."
"@GelBlob: Gently now."
"@GelBlob: Do it so he won't even realise he's in."

But, obviously before I know it, the blob will have me. By twitting him, I reveal myself to be a twit. And so, I will make it my mission to hunt you down free-thinkers.

"@Independent Thinking Humans of the Earth who refuse to join Twitter: I'll get you next time!"