Artistic integrity. Where did you come up with that? You're not artistic and you have no integrity.

First, there was LiveJournal.

There were only a few of us in the beginning. Loran introduced us, therefore, it was generally accepted amongst our circle of friends that the populous would find it off-putting, condescending, and pretty gay. Proving that not everybody can be wrong all the time, LJ took off. I used it mostly to steal jokes from my friends and tell them better.

Then there was some dumbass thing called Friendster, which I still don't understand. Though it did have that cool little Friend Explosion virtual graph thing going for it.

Then, the mothership known as MySpace landed, enabling the entire world to go to one place to blog, take pictures of themselves with their shirts off and/or working out, validate their popularity, rank the people in their lives, and let every damn person they know EXACTLY how they feel about Gilmore Girls. (I was always concerned for their health, since they appeared to not take breaths between monolouges)

Everybody loved MySpace -- until we started getting too many porn requests and our parents joined up. A mass exdous occured.

Now, there's Facebook for our networking and witty status update needs, and blogspot for those of us who wish to continue to better present other people's material. And, as a true Minnesotan, if everyone else likes it, then I do too. (This is known as the Yeah, fuck the sun. I fucking hate it too theory. [And if you know the origin of that theory, we are dear friends.])

So, the Carson Daily has a new home for me not to write in it.

I'm not gonna' lie, in the past few weeks, I've started to question whether or not The Carson Daily was needed. The universe then gave me an answer.

Last night, after I discovered that ladies league night was going to be my bread and butter at the golf course since I'm witty, charismatic, and they laughed extra hard when I would pronounce it JALL-OP-AH-NOSE, the crew retired to Bebops to watch a friend-of-a-friend play punk covers of Natasha Bedingfield songs.

While pretending not to know all the words to a Natasha Bedingfield song, a drunken young twenty-something with unfortunate hair (In that she spent time trying to make it look like that) sidled up next to me at the bar. She stared at me long enough to make me wonder if a stroke occured.

"Hello," I said Rob Burgundy?-ishly.

"You look like my husband Paul."

"Well, then you marreid a good-looking man."

"He's dead."

"Oh. Well. That's not good."

"Tonight would've been his birthday."

"..."

"I miss him."

"...all right."

Enter a softball-uniformed meathead who grabs the young widower forcefully, and demanded to know what the fuck!

"What?" She said sheepishly.

"I just asked you to dance! And you didn't answer me and just walked over and started dry-humping this fucking guy!?"

"Calm down."

"No, I will not-"

Then she tounge-probed him, and they began to make-out as if the plane were going down.

Before the saliva was wiped off on his sleeve, Softball Guy said, "I live three blocks from here."

"Sure," she said and grabbed her purse. Then she touched my face, and said "Goodnight Paul."

See? If I didn't have a blog, none of you could've known that story. And you may not realize it yet, but your lives are better now.