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Oh yes, it’s true.  It’s not just your iPhone, your iPad, and your mother.  You are being watched.  Case in point:  Moi (of course).

Today, I was twatting from work.  Really, I was watching My Green Lake (hey, shout out to you, sister!) tweet live about a fire in my ‘hood.  I load up the Twitter, and out of the corner of my eye, at the bottom right corner of my screen under “Who To Follow,” I see her.  Just sitting there.  Smiling at me.  Looking all innocent.  Acting like she isn’t paying attention to me.

Who, you ask?  The milque-toast receptionist at the front desk of my PLACE OF EMPLOYMENT!  Lest you think I am a dunce who doesn’t understand how Twitter allegedly makes follow suggestions, let me fill you in on a little secret:

Horseknuckle not only doesn’t work, he has no place at work.  He’s rude, belligerent, offensive, and rubs people the wrong way.  He’s almost 100% always right, but his delivery sucks.  Horseknuckle is the alter ego of a fine, upstanding, professional gentleman who must use diplomacy, flattery, and brains in his day-to-day dealings with his public.  And his public doesn’t really need to know about his alter ego. 

Why do I tell you this?  Because Horseknuckle doesn’t post about work-related issues, follow others who post about work-related issues, or give a shit about work-related issues or people or places.  He follows some friends, the weather, local happenings and news, global happenings and news, wine-makers, the homosexual agenda and its adherents, and not less than two dozen dirty gay porn stars.  Nothing about the subjects that Horseknuckle spouts off about or the people or things he follows have anything to do with work or would lead Twitter to conclude that he should or would be interested in following the 65 year old receptionist at the front desk with 5 cats, a Christmas sweater collection that would give you hives, a 1993 Toyota Corolla with a dent in every quarter panel, and a collection of “miniature” everything.  A nice, grandmotherly woman who hasn’t actually sent a tweet since 2010.

First Question:  Do you know what that means?  Answer:  It means that Twitter connected us BASED ON OUR IP ADDRESS! *

Second Question:  Do you know what that means?  Answer: It means that when you are in a place where you are getting your tweet on–whether you want others to know you are there are not–you are probably showing up in the “follow” suggestions of the people around you. 

And now you ask, “What do you have to hide?”  To which I answer, “Not a damn thing.”  Remember, however, the first rule you learned when you finally got your first job:  Don’t bring your personal life to work, and don’t bring your work into your personal life.  Furthermore, as a BIG GIANT GAY, I have issues about other people outing me, no matter the circumstances.

So, Twitter, STOP FUCKING OUTING ME!  I don’t want to appear miraculously in the “Who to Follow” section of my co-workers’ Twitter page.  I don’t want them to think, “Horseknuckle?  WTF is that?” only to click and discover that my alter ego and the guy down the hall might be the same person.

Long story short:  Unless my 65 year old receptionist with the cats, the Corolla, the sweaters, and the miniatures has a penchant for hot, dirty, gay pornstars, Anderson Cooper (is that redundant), and Green Lake news [NTTAWWT], then Twitter:  We have a problem.

*And no, I do not use the “Add a Location” function when I tweet.  The baby jesus knows that I don’t need you bitches all up in my grill all the time.

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Are you the douchebag who posts your travel plans as codes on Facepages/Mybook/Chirper or any of the other social networking blogs that I follow? 

Stop it.

I did not go to school to become a travel agent.  My mother did.  You’d do much better to friend her generation of people than mine, because I am sick of you.  If you keep it up, then, every time I see one of your 3-letter posts, I am immediately going to start praying (and/or casting spells) that your plane runs off the runway when it lands–albeit in a fashion that doesn’t kill anyone (that’s just too politically fucking incorrect) but just causes as much disruption and pants-peeing as possible to totally ruin whatever trip you are going on.

I have warned you.  Knock the shit off.

*If you are wondering, that’s Fuck You, Asshole in airport code.

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