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Sucking through tubes.

Among my friends two very sharp cookies despise the internet with almost evangelical vigor.

"It'll take your eye out."

They've said the equivalent at different times, ready to duke it out with any techno-hipster over how shittily technology's empty promises of flying cars has left us all tethered to computers and crackberries, our dead weight grounded, gleeful paying $39.95/month for streaming videos of some imbecil fame seeker jerking off a chicken.

"Unrest.  All this connectedness leads to unrest, you wait and see."  BillyBob the mountain bio-geneticist tells me then asks,  "How many people do you think have been divorced as a result of Facebook?"

"Several, that's how many."  He's the guy who never answers his voicemail, only turns on his computer to model complex molecules and track cell geneologies, and most days keeps his phone turned off entirely while in pursuit of dangerous white water in which to paddle.

My other pal, TommyLee, a wildly successful 420 entrepreneur, wears covert disdain quietly, but firmly like a corset around his wallet.

"GPS tracking through the internet and all your whatever-the-fucking-G service you people use to keep from being bored with your own thoughts for more than 30 seconds will keep a man (or woman) from being a safe, reliable customer."

His brand of network marketing is still illegal in most states and his pragmatic, albeit somewhat paranoid view of customers and um, business partners, has caused him to adopt technologically strict (dis)qualifications regulating with whom he will trade.

"Lead the man right here, that's what the internet'll do.  The devil can't come into your house unless you invite him."

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