You're away from the computer right now, but do you have to look like such an idiot? "The Style Guys" are back with their first review of 2006, and this time we're taking it to cyberspace! Here is our merciless review of crappy away messages, and the crappier people who use them.



Streeter: Thanks, Captain Obviously a Fucking Douchebag. Like I didn't know that just by looking at the little yellow post-it hovering next to your screen name, idiot. I wonder if everything you do is as original and inspired as this pre-loaded crap. This away message says so much about you: you're lazy, uninventive, sweaty, morally corrupt, ethically void and, most of all, a chronic bed wetter. Why don't you take an extra three seconds and type something yourself instead of letting the robots do your thinking, you useless drone.

Amir: You're a piece of shit, you know that? Actually, you're worse than a piece of shit. A piece of shit doesn't waste everybody's time. A piece of shit, at least looks like chocolate. A piece of shit actually feels good, and cathartic coming out of my asshole. You? You would hurt a lot coming out of me, you don't look like chocolate, and you're just wasting everybody's time. We already know you're away from your computer. Tell us why! It's as if I came up to you, asked you how you were feeling, and you said, "Yes. I am feeling." Well you're about to feel the bottom of my shoe against your face, and neck, bitch! Brown belt. Taekwondo. What's up now?



Streeter: Look asshole, you might as well just say "'I'm spanking it to hentai porn and eating a greasy slice of pizza because I'm a fat loser who lives in a fantasy world instead of dealing with my social discomfort and/or chronic B.O." I bet you're not even playing a game at all, I bet you're watching a movie. A shitty movie. A shitty movie like "'Big Momma's House 2." And worse yet, I bet you're laughing at it and trying to convince your roommate that Martin Lawrence is a master of subtle comedy and a breath of fresh air in the derivative world of urban black comedy. God, your roommate must hate you.


Amir: You don't deserve human contact. What? You don't! You don't deserve your mother hugging you, an acquaintance acknowleding you, and you definitely don't deserve me addressing you. But I'll do it anyway. However, only to tell you, that if you died tonite — if you hung yourself by jumping off your dirty dorm bed, and dangled like an unnoticed, rotting apple — nobody would care. In fact, the first thing they'd recognize is the stench coming out of your room, and how it, for once, doesn't resemble semen and loneliness. Just. Die. What's up now?



Streeter: Well, well, well, too cool for words, are we? And why so vague? Are you doing something sinister? Something naughty or taboo? I doubt it. I bet you're sitting naked in the dorm shower, crying about how much you miss high school and poking your shriveled genitals with the butt end of an empty Pert Plus bottle. You're pathetic, you know that? If you started acting like a grownup you might muster up the courage to let someone know where you are and exactly what you'll be returning right back from, but you won't do that, will you? No, you won't and do you know why? Because you're a little, whiny, needy, self-indulgent asshole, that's why. You think that by not writing words you look cool and busy but in reality you are simply exposed as the poseur you are.

Amir: BRB. Three simple letters. Two if you want to get technical. Yet, so much is revealed. How dare you attempt hiding so much, behind so little. You cannot block the sun with a dime-sized shield. A scoop of ice cream does not soften the bitter blow of a parent's funeral. In this case, brevity may be the soul of twit. Be Right Back? Ha. Don't bother. What is up now?



Streeter: How about I hit up your face, yo? First of all, calling your cellular telephone a "'celly' is disrespectful to the countless people who spent years developing the technology. You've reduced their hard work to nothing more than an adolescent colloquialism, you d-bag. Next, why do you feel the need to brag about what you're doing and who you're doing it with? It's like you're a little kid letting everyone in class know that you got invited to a killer birthday party with a clown and a magician and they did not. If there is any justice in the world you and "'Cass" will spend the entire night being hit on by skeevy locals and downing warm appletinis from dirty snifter glasses. Bitch.


Amir: It is estimated that between 10 and 50 million Russians were killed under Josef Stalin's iron-fisted rule of the Soviet Union in the early parts of the 20th century. Even the most liberal estimates – the ones attributing 100 million human death at the hand of this Russian dictator – is not even close to describing the amount of grief and human suffering caused by your arrogant, self-involved, and incredibly sophomoric away message. I don't know who this "Cass" is, but I pity her more than anybody I've ever encountered, and I grew up in an orphanage. It's one of the reasons I'm so incredibly bitter. What's up now?



Streeter: Really? Are you? Because last time I checked, passing out is just that; passing out. When someone actually passes out they don't have time to write a shitty away message, hit the "I'm Away" button and then crawl into bed. No, a true passer-outer barrels into his room like an off-balance Godzilla, takes off one sock, pulls one arm out of his shirt and ends up lying face-down on the floor for the remainder of the night. Someone who really passes out doesn't put up an away message; they can be identified by their italicized, grayed out screen name informing you that, while they have been online for 26 hours and 8 minutes, they have been idle for 18 hours and 27 minutes. That's what passing out is; not coming home, neatly typing out a lie, changing into your jammies, drinking a glass of warm milk, begging your roommate to rub your tummy, setting up your dream journal on your nightstand, saying your prayers and quietly masturbating while lying on your stomach like you do every night.


Amir: I wish to God that somebody would come in while your "passed out" and sit on your chest. Then, using their entire body weight they would press their open palms firmly against your windpipe and trachea. You will then realize that the dream you are having about somebody cutting off oxygen to your extremeties and brain is nothing short of a horriffic reality. You wake up milliseconds before it's too late. Blackness will cloud your vision, until it completely engulfs you. You wake up (maybe) 3 minutes later. You are lucky to be alive, but at least your away message tells the fucking truth. What's up now?



Streeter: Really? May I? Because I could save countless people the pain of reading this bitchy away message. Here's a little peice of info for you: nobody wants to hear about how shitty your day is going to be any more than you want to have a shitty day. It's like if I were to tell you a story about how boring my day was it would be a very boring story. Do yourself a favor and take the killing into your own hands. Why should someone else go to jail because you didn't have the balls to end your own misery? Or, if you don't want to die, maybe you could try NOT BEING A FUCKING LIAR!

Amir: Oh my God. A bio final, AND an art history final!? Here are some statistics for you. In the next 36 hours, 40,000 children will starve to death. 7,000 spouses will be beaten to death (9 husbands). 36,000 people will get into a fatal car accident, nearly half of them due to drunk driving. 9,000 people will die of heart disease, 5,000 will die of AIDS, and another 3,000 due to famine. 100,000 babies world wide are currently malnourished and being tortured world-wide, and 40,000 will be dead within a year. But, wow, gym, lunch, AND work!? Well that's just a fate worse than death! What's up now?

The Style Guys want to thank you for all your support and lack of style. Without you we'd have nobody to ridicule.