Monday, December 13, 2010

Jem Jam, Stewart K. Rockefeller, and Why You Don't Send Facebook Friend Requests to People You Don't Know

When I was in high school my friend, Sarah, had a penpal. Her name was Maria. Only it wasn't spelled Maria. We pronounced it Maria. But I distinctly remember it was spelled differently. I have no idea of the spelling. Please forgive me. It's been 15 years, I'm quickly descending into middle age, and I can't always remember how the names of other people's penpals were spelled.

By the way, Maria? If by some weird twist of fate you happen to be reading this: I apologize. Oh, and I'm an asshole. That should cover the bases.

One day, Sarah was all, "I have a penpal." And I was all, "You know what would be awesome? If we made up a bunch of stories and SENT THEM TO HER? Wouldn't that be awesome? Wouldn't it? Huh?"

I'm pretty sure Sarah only humored me but, even still, the Saga or Maria was born. Our little town was painted out to be the Beverly Hills of Arkansas. All of our friends had different "roles." It was a soap opera in a penpal letter. At one point our entire English class was involved, there was a pimp named Diarreah, and a lesbian exchange student was slated for a sex change.

And I wonder where my two-year-old gets his wild imagination from.

That ^^ story really has nothing to do with anything I'm about to post. I just (a) wanted to tell it and (b) it's a good way to let you know that bullshitting people is one of my top five hobbies.

I can't help it.
I realize it makes me an asshole.
I enjoy it.

Thursday morning I woke up to a friend request on Facebook. Let me go through with a little disclaimer here:

IF you send me a friend request on Facebook
and IF I do not know you
and IF your profile picture doubles as your mug shot

I reserve the right to mess with you.

And to tell all my friends what's going on.
And to post it on my blog.

Enter the Story of Jem Jam. He never knew that sending a friend request to some 30-year-old mom in Tennessee would get him invited to the Maury Povich Show. (Sorta).

FYI: LANGUAGE AND ADULT CONTENT ALERT. Don't say I didn't warn ya.
Also: Special thanks to my girl, Jenn B, leg work on this. (And, yes, she posted it in her blog on Thursday and I'm a Big Fat Copycat but I wanted it for all posterity on *my* little corner of the internet too. So there).


For most of Thursday, Facebook was trying to come between me and Mr. Jam. Like, I totally could not send him a message. And believe me. I tried. It finally let me later that evening and I said this:
Hey, are you Stewart Rockefeller? The Stewart I went to school with at UCF back in the late 90's/ early 00's?? Wow! When did you change your name?

Also, could you explain a little more about what 'rich nigga shit' is to me? You have it listed in your activities and that sounds like something I don't wanna miss out on.

He hadn't messaged me back by the next morning. Fail on his part. Fail.
Stewie, you may go by Jem Jam now but you'll always be StewRock to me. Do you remember that night at the Delta Sig party? That was just the most fun night EVER.

By the way, I think you should know I have a 10-year-old daughter. I'm not saying you're the father but we already paternity tested Brian Robinson and it's not him. Wanna go on Maury? We could totally be on TV! Plus, if it is you then I'm REALLY going to need to know more about this rich nigga shit, okay?
I still haven't heard back from him and tonight he's getting another Brandi-gram in his inbox. I'm determined to be blocked.

I love life. I love Facebook.

Thank you, Jem Jam, for making an ordinary Thursday absolutely awesome. Your friend request was like an early Christmas present.

P.S. Jem Jam is TOTALLY getting his own tag on my blog. This saga is far from over, ya'll. FAR.FROM.OVER.