Send. Oops.

I'm talking to you.

You, the savvy pilot of all things digital.

You, the streetwise navigator of the wide world of web.

You, who surfs the ether with greater agility than Duke Kahanamoku shredding the tastiest waves that nineteenth century Waikiki could serve up.

I'm talking to you...and I'm talking to me. Think once, think twice, think twelve full cycles of thought—before hitting "send."

How many times have you read something, whether from a friend, a foe or a complete stranger, that sparked such an inferno within your upper intestinal tract that your lungs felt sweaty?

If this were 1991, you might phone that person who so angered you. Naturally, you'd measure your words and tone down your ire once speaking with a live human. Then again, you might just talk yourself down from such a personal confrontation altogether.

Or, maybe you'd write them a letter, mail it off and read whatever lame defense they may present a week or so later. Since all emotion and possibly most memory of your irritation would have significantly diminished by then, you certainly wouldn't write back.

Oh, but now, twenty years later, revenge is as close as your fingertips. Tread carefully.

Another victim fell prey to the awesome power of cyber stupidity several days ago, when Congressman Anthony Weiner texted a photo of his kielbasa wrap to a young woman in Bellingham, Washington.

I questioned what motivates men to engage in this sort of behavior back in October, when quarterback Brett Favre was exposed for having texted a picture of his bratwurst to a female employee of the New York Jets. Now we all know why, no matter whom the guy played for, he was always given number four.

It's hard not to believe that these two guys didn't know what they were doing, and that this imagery would eventually circulate to the masses. But maybe they didn't care, or even relished the idea.

Perhaps these men intended a similar result to when everyone goes out for a nice work lunch at Claim Jumper. After eating, everybody's pretty full, so they decide to split a dessert, like the Ultimate Motherfudge Cake or something, six ways. Each person takes a turn plunging his or her fork into the cake as it orbits the table.

Ecstasy ensues in a counterclockwise manner.

When it's all over, the table cloth is bunched against a menu stand and all at the table wear the familiar afterglow of a culinary carnal carnival.

That's my theory, anyway. These dudes were so impressed with themselves that they believed a gross, grainy representation of a guinea pig in a blanket was hotter to the female gender than a candlelit massage and pedicure from Johnny Depp.

So please, if you're going to play in the fields of social media, where the room keeps filling up, yet no one leaves, give yourself a few simple rules of engagement:

Don't photograph and post images of body parts. They'll make you look like you have a cadaver fetish.

If you're going to photograph food all the time, I want to see everything you've been eating, not just the pretty stuff. Show me that plastic bowl of mayonnaisey tuna next to the frayed pack of saltines and a Mickey's Big Mouth you had last Sunday afternoon.

When texting, cut off the conversation sooner than you think you should. It's very difficult to stop; my teenager has sent only one text message, but it's lasted three years and involved 946 people.

It's totally fine to post boring and mundane statuses on Facebook, buy hey, isn't that what Twitter is for?

And finally, never, and I mean never, ever, write a blog.