If The Internet Suddenly Disappeared: How We'd Get Laid

The following journal was found in a dumpster outside a White Castle in Bayside, New York. Little is known about its origin, but judging from the title "Notes from the Internet Apocalypse, 2013," it comes from the future. Or was written by someone who has the ability to date things in the future even though it's not technically the future . . . yet. Oh, and Gladstone wrote it. We do know that. But the Gladstone we know or future Gladstone? It's almost impossible to say. Nevertheless, it is reprinted here as a cautionary tale. . .

When the great crash happened it was nothing like we feared. There was no panic. No tears. Mostly there were just slammed fists and swearing. The internet was down, and hitting refresh didn't work. Ctrl, alt, delete, and hard rebooting were similarly useless.

No one had internet. Anywhere.

And we didn't know why. Electricity, running water, and even television were all unaffected. But Internet Explorer mocked us with an endless hourglass. And Firefox just kept asking to download the latest version that never came. Mac users were confident Safari would never fail them, but it did. Although, because the internet was down, no one tweeted "UGH! Safari! FAIL!"

We went to sleep that night with no emails sent. No statuses updated. And millions of men all over the world checked that secret panel in their basement wall to see if their old Jenna Jameson DVDs were still there to play them to sleep. Tomorrow, we thought, would be a new day.

DAY 2. THE WAITING

Some woke at dawn. Not on purpose, but withdrawal can be a bitch. They were the first to see that nothing had changed. Some walked out bewildered into the rain. Others remembered that television still had things called weathermen who advised you to take an umbrella on days like this. By 9 a.m. our mood was best characterized as one of bemused frustration with actual panic still an arm's length away. Many offices canceled work, at least for the morning. It was like getting a technological snow day, and swapping the internet for some time off seemed like a fair trade at the time. Besides, not everything was broken. My Scotch had yet to suffer any technical difficulties. I poured myself two fingers of The Macallan, pleased with that pithy Scotch observation. I considered using it to update my Facebook status before remembering that would be impossible.

At around 2 p.m, Tobey called, clearly drunk off basement microbrew, and asking if I wanted to attend his "internet-free party." I reminded Tobey that he and I lived on opposite sides of the country and that was one of the many reasons we were only internet buddies. Besides, even if I lived closer, Mapquest was down and the last time I got directions from Tobes, I ended up at an In n' Out Burger in Santa Monica. I hung up the phone and clicked refresh on my "page cannot be displayed" sign one more time.

DAY 12. THE ELECTRONICALLY UNASSISTED ORGASM

Almost two weeks now and I've begun to keep this journal in real time to chronicle what has become of the world. (I actually got that idea on day three, but it was hard to find a store that still sold journals -- the personal blog phenomenon having hit the fancy bound blank book industry particularly hard.) Then I tried to recreate the first two weeks from memory, but I got bored. Besides, to tell you the truth, a lot of days 3 - 7 were spent drunk, trying to remember how to hold up a dirty magazine with one hand.

But now, with 12 days behind me, I can tell you some parts of society have adapted better than others. Most offices are back in session, relying on faxes, phone calls, and the realization that 50% of all emails never need to be sent. I myself, however, have not returned to my duties at the workers compensation office. Seven years ago I had personally overseen the moving of our department to a fully paperless office. The thought of coming back to a desk flooded with photocopies and interoffice memos delivered in scribble-scratched envelopes was too much to bear. Not just the work, but the return to an office that no longer bore any signs of my one accomplishment. My more recent (and last) attempt at greatness was met with less approval. Two years ago, I'd written a memo advising that the state could save millions in worker compensation payments if it delivered free and mandatory anti-depressants to all its employees (including employees of the workers compensation office)to prevent all the disability claims stemming from crippling workplace-induced depression and, of course, botched suicide attempts.

And while corporate America has risen to its knees and found a way to crawl towards profitable quarters, social circles are still floundering. People are trying to remember how they got their essentials before the internet. Specifically, sex. No more eHarmony or Match.com. No more Facebook creeping. You can't even flash your junk on chat roulette if you wanted to. How were we to get our groove on in this new world?

Like most uncertain people we searched our collective memory and found childhood movies in its place. Where would Val Kilmer or Tom Cruise go to get laid? Bars! And it's true. You can find women there. Only, unlike the internet, these women are three dimensional (sort of) and when they laugh, strange noises come out in spasms instead of "LOL."

But reality is troubling and new. And some struggle to look attractive outside of MySpace and Facebook. Most notably, "the crawlers." Heavier women, inching along bar room floors in shirts accentuating their cleavage, while forcing slimming perspectives on the males that stand above them. A pathetic display that actually works surprisingly well.

At least, they're doing better than" the irises." Women with pretty eyes, and nothing much else going on. They dart up to strangers --lids ablazin'- and go eyeball to eyeball, making only their best feature visible. The ironic flaw to their plan being that such proximity makes it nearly impossible to down beers which, if my memory of early 90's novelty T-Shirts and baseball hats is correct, would really help their chances.

And then there are the "dopplegangers." The saddest entry on our list. Women carrying head-sized photos of sexy celebrities around with them everywhere they go. They're not so far gone to believe they will be mistaken for the celebs. They don't actually hide their true faces beneath these pics like a mask. But somehow there's a belief that if they surround themselves with enough photos of Angelina Jolie or Megan Fox or Jessica Rabbit, that some sort of sexual charisma will travel by osmosis to men's perceptions of them.

Not that men aren't just as ridiculous. Unsure how to start a conversation with any real person, we dig through women's purses until we find a picture we like and say something like "cool pic" or "you look hot in this."

Last week, I saw a guy actually "poke" the girl next to him at the bar. To my surprise, she blushed for a moment, giggled something to her girlfriend, and then firmly pressed one outstretched finger into his shoulder. They stared at each other for a moment, and then left the bar in unison. Whether it was to have sex or just say dirty things to each other from across the room, while mutually masturbating, is difficult to say.

Sex in the apocalypse is still an awkward dance for all involved, but, thankfully, once again, alcohol helps soothe the choppy waters of social interaction. And some of us, particularly those old enough to remember sex before texting booty calls, are still able to get laid. So basically the new world's not looking so bad today because between that and Daddy issues, those of us over thirty are pretty much cleaning up.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Continue on to part 2 here