The Google

I was out with some friends recently when we got onto gossiping about a mutual friend of ours, whom we were all apparently stalking on Facbeook (as if you’re judging us…). One of us, me, was concerned that her new boyfriend was but a year out of high school, while another was convinced that the boyfriend was still in university. Confused, worried and lost, we went straight to Google.

“The Google doesn’t lie.” I declared; and sure enough but five minutes later, the Google let us know, with some relief, that our friends new boyfriend was indeed a community college graduate. Praise be allah.

I’m convinced that people don’t pray to god anymore; people now pray to Google. In fact the search engine and its various appendages (GTalk, GoogleDocs, GChat, Gmail, G-adNauseum) have seemingly more to do with my day-to-day life then my mother, at least with the exception of financial support. For that I still need Sima, although as a blogger – I once made almost $8 from Google ad words. Google only mails checks in installments of hundred dollars so… I guess I’m still waiting for Google Ship to come in.

Anyway, so pervasive is Google that its latest advertisement actually aired during the Superbowl; perhaps the massest mass market marketing festival of our culture. The ad, entitled Parisian Love, is part of the Google Search Story campaign. In a nutshell: the commercial tells the story of someone, presumably male and American, who uses Google’s search engine to look for French exchange programs, Parisian coffee shops, how to impress a French woman, how to deal with long-distance relationships… blah blah blah… until the ad ends with a baby crying as our unknown hero searches for: “how to assemble a crib.” Orangina vomit mouth.

The conceit of Google’s current ad campaign is that Google is essential to your life. Google is now your best friend. But is it?

Thinking that the Google worked out well for our unknown American friend, who moved to Paris, found himself a spouse, taught himself the difference between truffles and Truffaut, I thought I’d try out my own luck with the Google, seeing as I don’t live in Paris (but would like to), I have considered finding myself a spouse (but haven’t been able to), and would also like to know the difference between truffles and Truffaut (so I can impress douchebags at bars). And as June 8th grows closer and closer, ie my convication from RotFunMan, I should probably find out what I’m going to do with myself post MBA.

Looking for love and answers I typed into Google: “Where should I work after my MBA?”

The first thing that Google came up provided no career advice, and in fact served to only make me feel worser about myself.

Someone in cyberspace asked: “Should I add MBA after my name?”

The response: “Unfortunately, there are only a handful of professions in which adding credentials after your name make sense. Having an MBA is certainly not one of them, and there are a host of other abbreviations that are downright pathetic.”

Thanks Google; for $70k I don’t even get to ad something fun to my signature? FML.

Then I tried: “What do I do with an MBA?”

The Google coughed up this: “What you can do with an MBA degree is really up to you and how far you want to go in your career. Graduates of an MBA program can choose to use their skills to help others in a nonprofit or to climb the corporate ladder and reach the upper echelons of management. Regardless of the career path you choose, your return on a MBA is based on how much you want to push yourself to reach your personal and professional goals.”

Realizing that my immediate personal goals should involve doing the dinner dishes I left in the sink, I sensed a feeling of inherent boredom. It was something only that could best be described as ennui, which, when typed into Goolge led me to its official definition: en·nui –noun; a feeling of utter weariness and discontent resulting from satiety or lack of interest; boredom: The endless lecture produced an unbearable ennui.

Maybe it was just me, but the Google, which had seemed so reliable only hours earlied, now seemed so unhelpful. Why Google did you forsake me, why?

All of this just goes to show you though, that Google, which is attempting to ingratiate itself into all aspects of my life can’t actually do everything.

So ya know what I did? I called my mother. And ya know what she told me to do? She told me to get off my lazy ass and do the dishes.

Le Sigh.