Internets Are Creepy
  If, for some unfathomable reason, you need more LBB in your life, you can cyberstalk me via fucking MySpace. You can find me among the emo teens, the netspeak cretins, the crappy garage bands and the middle-aged men masquerading as nympho cheerleaders at http://www.myspace.com/lbbastard.

Dear fucking MySpace,

  Why in hell do I have to have my "Zodiac sign" in my profile? Astrology is the vestigial-tailed, microcephalic, basement-dwelling third cousin of legitimate Astronomy. What it lacks in understanding of physical principles is made worse by its total inability to predict anything.

  I don't want to give anyone who wanders across my profile reason to suspect that I subscribe to an idiotic pseudoscience, and I resent the fact that I don't have the option of removing this item from my profile. Why is it that my height, a measurable, observable figure, is an optional profile item, but an arbitrary assignation of a star sign is fixed and not subject to removal? I should be able to choose whether or not this field is viewable in my profile. Tom, let's get on that.

How To Hate The Internet
A Young Lady's Primer

1. Receive Friend Request from stranger on fucking MySpace.

2. View suspiciously professional looking headshot.

3. Suspect spambot.

4. Attempt to discern if requester is a real person; open requester's profile.

5. Forget that speakers are powered on.

6. Claw frantically at head as horrible, grating pop song, obnoxious, eye-watering layout and promises of "more naughtier pics at my site" cause brainmeats to sublimate and stream from head holes.

7. Wait for seizures to abate.

8. Decline Friend Request.

MySpace validates its existence, with a question coughed up from the Ask LBB Friend Space.

Dear LBB,
  What's the deal with French Canadians?
- Erin

Dear Erin,
  Canada is the pudgy sixth grade hall monitor of the western world. Grown-ups are always complimenting it on being polite and well-mannered, but when it tries to warn the bigger kids against running in the hall, they just laugh.

  The French, on the other hand, are the awkward, angry kids smoking cigarettes and making out behind the bleachers. Napoleon inflated their already considerable egos, and they've muddled through 200 years of republics trying to simultaneously pretend that they didn't enjoy being the center of an empire, and they didn't mind being rolled over every time some other country decided it was their turn to conquer Europe. Picture these kids who are too cool for school living in a nation full of polite, mild-mannered honor roll students. It's the sociological version of a John Hughes movie, and it goes a long way toward explaining why Quebec has such a secessionist bug up its ass.

You finally did it, didn't you.

  Alright, you sons of bitches. I've studiously avoided taking this step, but I finally broke down and did it.

  Ask the Little Bald Bastard now has a fucking MySpace page.

  Please bear in mind that I will absolutely not be using this as a regular hangout/friend tracker. It's the Internet equivalent of a short bus, intended to drive the "special" users of the Internet to my column. That said, if any of you want to add me as a fucking MySpace friend, you can find me at http://www.myspace.com/lbbastard.