Wired. Hooked up. Connected. Facebooked. Myspaced out. I am fucking 24/7, I am really flying man, at 24 megabits with my pixels on high-beam and my motherfuckin' screen all HD'd while I'm O.D.ing down the information superhighway with a joystick between my legs and my prick in my hands all juiced up over little Sally big-boobs smiling at me like sweet candy from a goddam-million-miles away.
I will strangle any and all comers with a fuckin broadband cable cause I learnt how to fight on Youtube and I will punch you right in the face and get a thousand hits and become a minor celebrity and fade into oblivion, but - and now, this is important - but I will make a comeback with a sextape and a cumshot shot with a gram of high-grade coke jammed up my nose and my cock lit up by a night-vision camera stuck up my freshly waxed butt.
Then, not too long into my reinvigorated sit-com career I will be scandalised by the discovery of pictures of my seven year-old niece on my paper-thin wi-fi capable laptop, and pictures of me hiding my head in shame beneath the shroud of a trendy neoprene vest will shoot around the earth via blutooth enabled touch-screen smartphones, leading to my eventual suicide while out on a million dollar bail, my neck limp and raw and wrapped snugly in a length of reliable, old-fashioned rope.
I can't wait for the movie to come out on DVD...
