People keep askin’ me ‘cause I’m Russian what I think ‘bout Crimea, but what do I know from Crimea? I’m not Ukrainian and I’m not even really Russian. I was born in the United States. All I know is it’s some stupid peninsula. Nobody wants to go there. If I want to go to a peninsula I’ll go to Florida. So Russia says that Crimea is theirs and Ukraine says that Crimea is theirs. Who cares? It’s the same stupid place. It’s like two dogs fightin’ over which one gets to eat the cat poop. If people in Crimea don’t want to be in Russia and want to stay in Ukraine, they finally have an excuse to leave that crappy turd hangin’ into the Black Sea. They can go to the real Ukraine or maybe now they can go someplace better than Ukraine or Russia like almost everywhere else in Europe except Moldova and Belarus. And the people in Crimea that wanted to be in Russia; now they have their dream come true. They’re in Russia—the crappiest part of Russia, but Russia. I hope they also like bein’ arrrested, ‘cause they prob’ly will be soon, ‘specially if they start havin’ some pussy riots. Just imagine what a shit place Crimea’s gotta’ be? They think that short bald man-boobs guy, Vladimir Putin, is some kinda’ magic leprechaun that’s gonna’ fix up their dumpy little mistake on the Sea of Azov and make it some sorta’ poor man’s Atlantic City, except with more public urination and that’s an improvement. Guess what? Not gonna’ happen. Best case scenario, it gets to the point where it’s just as terrible as the rest of Russia instead of worse. There’s a reason my family had to get a visa to come to America. If Russians didn’t need a visa to come here, there’d be no one left there except a topless Putin ridin’ a horse. F Crimea. –Nadejda Naivenko
Okay, so I finally decided to do the whole facebook thing ‘cause everyone else’s doin’ it. Basically I did the thing twice ‘cause I made a lotta’ mistakes the first time. See, I thought I should just set up my account and have all of my favorite things liked, like bands and tv and stores and brands and shit and I also spent a few days searchin’ and invitin’ anyone and everyone I could possibly think of to be my friend and I was uploadin’ pictures and joinin’ groups and addin’ games and apps and all that kinda’ stuff. I wanted to have more friends than anyone and for them to think I was so awesome for all the awesome stuff they could see I liked and I wanted to play all the games and win all the games and lead the sorority and have the best farm and all the best of everything.
Total fuckin’ disaster. Really, all I wanted was to see what people were up to and for them to say how awesome I was. Yes, I like’s me some attention, but ain’t that really the whole point of facebook? I mean, it worked for a while. I was basically droolin’ over every update and commentin’ on every post and I was showin’ up late for my shifts at work and turnin’ into one of those assholes constantly lookin’ down at my phone like some kinda’ crackhead who thought the phone was ‘bout to magically spit out some crack rocks.
Then it all got old. My phone was vibratin’ every other second to let me know some crap was happ’nin’ on my facebook. I got myself tagged in so many photos of me drunk or high or with my shirt off that I had double digit friend requests every day and the little stupid red message balloons were startin’ to look like Lindsay Lohan arrest counters. Then there were the ads and pop-ups and suggestions and crap. Some hatin’ ugly ass bitches started makin’ some trouble on my wall and sayin’ I was a slut and a whore and talkin’ trash. Sure, some girls say them things to me in person even though they ain’t true, but I can’t slap their bitch asses when they do it on the computer.
And even if I could get past all these constantly naggin’ updates and games and all kinds of distractions and haters and shit and could get the newsfeed screen to stay still for a minute and stop updatin’ and scrollin’ and jumpin’ all over the place when I didn’t want it to so I could see what was goin’ on with all these friends I had and what good things they were sayin’ ‘bout me, almost everything was total дерьмо.
I never knew how much crap there was in the world that I don’t give a shit about until I joined facebook.
It was all SOOOOO annoyin’, but my mamma didn’t raise no asshole, so I went in and deleted the whole account and started from scratch. I asked one of my fellow authors for help to do it right the second time so see below for what we got ‘cause I’m awesome like that. – Nadejda Naivenko
Rules – Every day, it becomes more and more difficult to navigate in society without sublimating your personal privacy to the corporate entity known as Facebook. When you finally give up the fight to live off the ‘book, here are some rules that will keep you moderately safe and somewhat un-annoyed for now, but things may change at any time according to Facebook’s will and there is nothing you can do about it.
The Knave’s Ten Rules for Making Facebook Tolerable Although It Will Still Annoy You and at Any Time They May Change Everything Causing Some Rules to No Longer Apply:
1. Firefox + AdBlockPlus + Fanboy’s lists (or something equivalent)
2. “Like” nothing so there is no basis for you to receive suggestions. If your friends really want to know what you like, you can tell them. Otherwise no one cares except the people sending you ads. If you really want to “like” something, be prepared to remove the “like” if you notice it generating suggestions.
3. Disable getting suggestions from what your friends decided to “like” in the Facebook Ads section of your profile settings.
4. Facebook makes you choose a location, so live in Balad, Somalia or some such place that will not generate location based suggestions.
5. Disable any kind of notification. There is really no reason to check Facebook more than once a day at an absolute maximum. If you are doing that, the notifications are pointless, because you will see everything the same day. If you are checking less than once a day, you have wisely realized that outside of the occasional event invitation, nothing important happens on Facebook.
6. Maximize all of your privacy settings and definitely don’t let anything be public.
7. Don’t play any games. They are not good anyway. There are better games elsewhere that don’t require you sharing your personal information.
8. Minimize your friends to people you’ve met in person and would actually be pleased to see again.
9. Do not upload any pictures or write any posts that you would not be okay with having posted on a billboard along the nearest highway.
10. Use an alias if you don’t have a common name and even if you do, still maybe use an alias for the sake of plausible deniability in case you post something you shouldn’t have.
There really are only the ten rules. Number eleven below should be so obvious that most people would be insulted to see it in writing, but for those who may not have realized this:
11. Don’t ever give them any actual real world money! –The Knave
Foreigners – I’m someone who knows a thing or two about foreigners, ‘cause my family and a lotta’ the people I know are foreigners, but I was born in America. Since I live with foreigners all day, I can understand why some people don’t like ‘em. First, they talk funny. I mean, how long has my mom been in this country and she still ain’t got no idea how to talk English good? Yesterday, she tells me, “Nadejda, I bring customer to house, yes? You go. Buy pizza. Be with friend. I call when can come home.” And of course she says it in this thick accent that I can barely understand and I’ve lived with her for eighteen years! But at least she tries. I know Russian, so we could just talk that at home, but we’re not in Russia, so we should speak American. Whenever I hear some foreigner usin’ other languages than English, I just tell ‘em to go back home if they don’t wanna’ simulate to this country. Real ‘Mericans speak English. Everyone else is a foreigner even if they got some piece of paper says they belong here, they don’t. If I ever decide to go to Russia, I’ll speak Russian, so I ain’t bein’ no hypocrite. All these people who speak Chinese and Mexican and Puerto Rican and Grecian and Muslim need go home if they don’t wanna’ speak the language of democracy, the Queen’s English. I got no beef with the foreigners who stay in their own countries. I’ll even let ‘em come for a visit, but if any of them decides to put down roots, they gotta’ get ‘emselves some English lessons or they’re always gonna’ be foreigners and I’m always gonna’ make fun of ‘em for talkin’ funny. They usually dress funny too. They need to take all their weird costumes and robes and funny hats and crap down to the thrift store and trade it for some real ‘Merican clothes like jeans and t-shirts or if they wanna’ be fancy, some cargo pants and polo shirts. So there you have it. Foreigners are people who dress funny, talk in weird other languages, or live in strange crappy countries where they don’t at least know they’re free. –Nadejda Naivenko
Narcotics are drugs that you use to feel better than you are now, but that you can’t get anyone to say you can have ‘em legally so you gotta’ hide ‘em from the coppers. Personally, I’m not much of a drug user. Sure, I get high. My friends call me Reefer or Reeferella, but that’s just marijuana, not a narcotic. Police’ll usually just say to get it out of public view unless some horny pig wants to get handsy and search your bra and panties. Anyways, it’s not a real drug. It’s just a gateway to hard drugs. Callin’ weed a drug is like callin’ your front door a house. Ganja is just medicine, like aspirin or Sudafed, but it treats how much life sucks. Boris, my mother’s boyfriend, snorts coke. My mother’s boyfriend’s girlfriend, Mary Jane, shoots heroin. Now, those’re narcotic-type drugs. Some people talk about food addition like sugar and fat’re drugs. My father weighs 800 pounds, but he says he could quit eatin’ anytime, so he’s not addicted. He is addicted to bein’ a fat ass, but that doesn’t mean food’s a drug. He’s just what Father Mike says is a glutton. Alcohol’s a drug, I think, but it’s no big deal, same as Xanax or Prozac. Father Mike invites me and my little brother, Vlad, over to the church all the time and lets us drink as much wine as we want. Vlad doesn’t like to go, but the church has a nice TV to watch while Vlad has his private sessions with the priest. Father Mike always has the set tuned to Nickelodeon which is a blast to watch plastered or I watch one of the priest’s Jonas Brothers DVDs. Anyways, when I’m talkin’ drugs, I’m talkin’ crystal meth, or acid, or E. ‘Shrooms aren’t really drugs either. They just help open your mind to the things old folks don’t want us to know about. ‘Shrooms and grass are basically like the vegetables of drugs. They’re healthy and good for you. The other day, me and my best girlfriend, Shelly the Weedskank, were trying to score some spliffs, but we didn’t have any money. I stole some of Boris’s coke and my dealer, Skeez, took it in trade. Weedskank paid by earning her nickname. Anyways, after Shelly swigged some mouthwash, we toked up and watched some meth-heads breakin’ into a car. See, crank’s a narcotic and tweakers’ll do some real criminal shit to score some crystal, so there’s a clear difference from pot. –Nadejda Naivenko
Not all baths are made the same. Like for example, my dad stays in bed to take a bath with a sponge on a stick, because of how incredibly fat he is. I don’t know that he would even fit out the door of his room. There is a bathroom he can waddle to in his room, but that door was widened years ago. It doesn’t have what you would normally consider a bathtub or shower, just has a hose and a drain in the floor, but mosta’ the time it’s too much effort for him to get hosed down and it’s not like he’s doin’ much, but watchin’ TV and stuffin’ his face and no one’s goin’ in that room, ‘cause it stinks, ‘cause there’s usually the remnants of old food and no one wants to go in there ‘n’ clean up, ‘cause he yells as much as he smells. You’d think that a guy’d be thankful that you help his bed-ridden ass clean up a little, so he’s just a fat pig and not a fat pig wallowin’ in’is own filth, but no, not my dad. And on top of the filth smell and the body smell, there’s the mildew smell, ‘cause when he does try to take a “bath” with the sponge on the stick, water runs into the bed sheets and carpet and pretty soon it smells like a whole new kinda’ ass, ‘cause there’s no ventilation in there. Really only spring and fall are tolerable. Summer, he sweats his ass off no matter how high you turn up the air-conditioning and winter he never opens the windows to air out his sty. I won’t even get into the toilet situation or the nasty-ass sponge itself. Basically, it’s like that corner of the house is the domain of a disgusting creature from another planet and the rest is where normal peeps live. For me, I only take a bath when my mom’s boyfriend isn’t around. If he’s there and I’m in the tub or shower, you know he’ll “accidentally” walk in on me for an ogle. Seems the lock always gets busted. When he stays over for a few days, my bath becomes usin’ a damp washcloth under my clothes. My buddy Timbo hasn’t bathed. No, I didn’t accidently leave the “since” off that sentence. It’s really gross, but he reeks so much like pot that it covers most of the other smell and he shares his herb freely, so that makes it tolerable usually. Sometimes a bunch of us do get together and forcibly bathe him outside in a kiddy pool, ‘cause there are limits to what the human nose can endure. – Nadejda Naivenko
A poledaddy is a man who encourages/drives a girl into becomin’ a stripper and then takes some of the money. Not quite a pimp, but in that direction. In most cases, poledaddies are not the Maury Povich-proven biological father of the stripper. They are usually step-fathers, uncles, guardians, foster fathers, boyfriends, dealers, mafiosos, former teachers, and so forth. Lemme’ tell you how it goes down. I’m sittin’ at home in my double-wide with my friends, Timbo the Pothead and Shelly the Weed-Skank. They call me the Russian Reefer. So what, we like to get high. Anyways, my mother’s boyfriend, Boris, comes in with this slut Mary Jane. (Surprisin’ly, she doesn’t smoke dope. Just shoots heroin.) Anyways, my mother’s out hookin’ and Boris says I need to go with Mary Jane and start earnin’ some money or he’s gonna’ kick me out on my skinny white ass and I’m gonna’ hafta’ start hookin’ like my mom. So I say my dad wouldn’t kick me out of the house and I hear him yellin’ from his room askin’ if Boris is there and sayin’ he better not be. But my dad’s bedridden with a serious case of obesity, so he’s not gonnna’ do anything. I tell Boris I’m eighteen and I have my GED. I can move out any time I wanna’. He yells at my dad to shut his fat face and then grabs my ass and says maybe I could earn my keep another way, but he’s gross and old, so I figure I’ll go with Mary Jane, ‘cause Boris could probably make things hard for me at home and I don’t wanna’ sleep on the couch at Timbo’s or Shelly’s, ‘cause they got bad situations at home. So Boris takes me and Mary Jane and we bring Shelly too, ‘cause she’s fat, but Boris says she could probably work weekdays durin’ the lunch shift, and we go to this little dive bar by the Army base and they like my tits, so now I have some money of my own after what I give to Boris, my poledaddy, so it’s all pretty cool. I’ve moved up to a better grade of weed, and Oswaldo, the bouncer, might be movin’ in to be my new poledaddy. He’s got a Mustang. –Nadejda Naivenko