July 16th, 2016


Visit me on Facebook. See if I care.

Some damn fool asked . . .

What does it mean if a person doesn't want to be on a site like Facebook?

For years I kept my cell phone in a tool box on my truck because that’s what it was: a tool for fixing my truck. If I couldn’t fix it myself, I called AAA on the cell phone. Lately I gave up my land line because I couldn’t afford it anymore and started using the cell phone exclusively.

I decided to try and see what twitter was all about since, as mortal human beings, that seems to be our most direct connection to the Word of The Donald. So I signed up. The very first tweet I got was from some guy who collects pictures of women’s butt cracks. Not porno, per se, just photos where a girl’s shorts, jeans, swimsuit or whatever was slipping or maybe not big enough to begin with and bit of that that proverbial “plumber’s crack” was beginning to show. While I have nothing against women or their butt cracks, this is not the kind of information I wanted to be getting daily on my phone from a stranger about strangers. That voyeuristic fetish-driven lifestyle is somebody else’s idea of a good time. I blocked that guy, but found that there were dozens, if not hundreds of other feeds that ranged from banal to disgusting that I didn’t want to see or have seen on my phone. I uninstalled twitter.

For years I had had a Facebook account so that when some advertiser said, “Like us on Facebook for a chance to win a genuine ‘Viva Il Duce’ bumper sticker,” I could do so. I never looked at my page and I had one friend: a lady my mom knows in Florida. I would get friend requests now and then and I ignored them. Recently I started accepting friend requests just for shits and giggles and found that it started an avalanche. Within four days I was getting four friend requests every time I opened my email—-all from people I did not know from Adam or Eve. I kept “friending” these people just to see what would happen. Well, before long, the same thing that happened on twitter happened on Facebook: I was getting posts and notifications constantly from dingbats whose avatar was a picture of Emperor Donald (even though they weren’t actually Il Duce himself or formally connected thereto). I have enough scary pictures of Emperor Donald in my head already; thank you very much. So, I closed my Facebook account and burned the temporary email address I had created just for such an event.

So to answer your question, what it probably means if a person doesn't want to be on a site like Facebook is that they have been banally brutalized with dreck and detritus from the far left end of the bell curve and can’t take any more of it.

I realize you can do a better job of filtering out the assholes, idiots and perverts, and I will make a new no- friends-allowed Facebook account just so that I can say,“ . . . and visit me on Facebook!” Go ahead, visit me. I don’t visit me and I might not see that you visited me till after Thanksgiving, but go ahead, visit me, see if I care.

Wow, is that long, or what? The Uber-Anal Quora Deities will be so proud of me!


Social media tip . . .

. . . for the concerned young person of today:  When you sign up for something like Facebook, use a flammable email address.  A flammable email address is one that can be "burned" on a moment's notice.  Most email providers will let you set up more than one address.  My Comcast account allows me seven, one of which I use just for signing up with things like Facebook or creating "accounts" with dicey vendors who require you to "log in" to their site to view their life-changing toilet paper alternatives.

Sometimes the only way to dump some of these tar babies is to burn their only bridge to you.  So you know.

'Splain the scriptures at yer kids . . .

I love the place where you're explaining that if a man cheats on his wife, the prophet will take his wife away and give her to someone else, to which one of the girls says, "Like a puppy."

That's about the most concise and accurate apperception of a patriarchal society's attitude toward women I've heard. Women are always told how special and perfect and perfectly cared for they are---just like a new puppy. Why wouldn't you want to be a new puppy? Well, if women are real people, and I stubbornly believe that they are, there are probably a lot of reasons they wouldn't want to be a puppy---new or otherwise.

In the next dispensation, men will be treated like puppies for a thousand years to see how they like it.  Of course we'll have to resurect the newspaper biz, 'cause the only good way to train a man will be with a rolled up newspaper.