Likeotomy
Doctors performing likeotomy on a volunteer subject.
A reading from the book of Demotivational Dictionary:
likeotomy |līˈkätəmē|
noun (pl. likeotomies) [ usu. in sing. ]
usage of the “favorite” button on tweets about my lobotomy: too bad you are now unable to grok the likeotomy I gave you.
A reading from the book of Demotivational Dictionary.
I’m pretty much a collector of likes. Feel free to share one of your own. I always appreciate them. I think.
[I] want to say thank you to you. I haven’t had an orthodox career and I’ve wanted more than anything to have your respect. The first time I didn’t feel it, but this time I feel it. And I can’t deny the fact that you like me. Right now, you like me! Thank you.
–Sally Fields, March 25, 1985
Sally Field about to bludgeon a cretin who failed to favorite her tweet.
Thank you, Ms. Fields. That’s exactly how I feel each and every time one of my tweets gets a star on the Twitter Walk of Shame. I’ve personally counted more visits by Halley’s Comet, though.
It works like this: You see a tweet you like (or some other masturbatory form of social media expression) and you like it. So you click the little icon that means favorite, like, upvote, star and/or what not. What’s so hard to understand about that?!
It turns out that “like” is sometimes the wrong tone.
“My father molested me every single day until I was eight years old.”
Do you think, somehow, that “like” seems misplaced here?
Facebook With Mom
A lot of people ask me, “Hey, asshole. Where do you get your blogging topics?” Good question. Using today as an example, I had an early morning Facebook chat with mom. Later, I decided to write about it. See? That’s how it’s done. -Ed.
I don’t use the Facebook a lot. It’s mainly for poking. And, way less often, liking. I’ve been patiently waiting for the HATE button. I’d settle for DISLIKE. Maybe then I’d use it more.
For me, the primary purpose of Facebook is that it’s a place to post selfies I’ve taken during urban riots when I’m standing atop overturned police cars that are on fire. With my shirt off.
Other than that I have little use for the thing.
Then there’s mom. You respond to a message from mom at your own peril.
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Today Is Your Dearthday!
When I hear Christian music I often ask myself a question.
Jesus Christ across the galaxy
Bringing toys and goodies for you and me
Are you singing for His glory? Or your own? You have to dig deep for the true answer.
That might be an awkward opening, but here’s the point of this post:
Today is a new day. It’s my friend’s birthday. So I decided to go on Facebook and send him some cheese-ball greetings. “Congratulations for being alive on a day that signifies the number of rotations of this planetoid around its star being a whole number. Jolly good, chum!”
I expected to see Facebook jam the birthday in my face. But it didn’t. There was no mention of my friend on the birthday dailies. Hmm. What to make of this?
Using logic and deduction, I theorized that my friend didn’t share his birthday with Facebook. Wise move. Extrapolating further, I reasoned that my friend probably didn’t wish his birthday to be generally known. That seemed to me to be a reasonable hypothesis that fit all the known facts.
What to do? What to do?
I had a choice. Post publicly on his wall, thus announcing the occasion to all of his friends, or respect what I assumed were his wishes and keep it private?
Since it was his special day, and not my own, I decided to recognize that he’s an individual who exists in the universe and has feelings. I decided to show respect for that.
I sent my greetings in private.
Feeling warm and fuzzy about being a considerate friend, I went back to my homepage to see what other flotsam Facebook had washed up on my beach. I do this daily to remind me about the true nature of humanity and such.
Bazinga!
There it was, on the very top of the news feed. Someone else just wished my friend a happy birthday. In public. For all to see. Bastard! Quickly his Facebook was overrun with the bloody things. They say it’s the thought that counts. So how do you take a good thing and convert it into the equivalent of peeing in your so-called friend’s Wheaties?
There it sits.
Happy birthday to you? Or me? Who exactly are we celebrating here?
“Psst! Hey, everybody! Look at me! Look at how wonderful I am remembering my friend’s birthday and shit. Aren’t I good? Don’t you love me? You love me, don’t you? Why hasn’t everyone liked this? Click like or you’ll be unfriended! Somebody call the whambulance!”
Again, to this birthday interloper, I ask: Whose glory is motivating your behavior, you narcissistic creepazoid?
I can haz educashun?
Devices in the classroom? What could possibly go wrong?
Attention class! Eyes up here. Settle down, now! No, Siri is not allowed to say the Pledge of Allegiance on your behalf. We don’t offer citizenship by proxy. Yet. You just might be missing the point. And devices down before putting Siri and/or your hand over your heart.
Say what? Devices you say? In school? What fresh hell is this?
Okay, class. Who was the first president of the United States, often referred to as the father of our country? All together now, in unison, just like Wilma and Betty:
Google it!!!
Well done, class. iTunes credit for everyone! Except little Timmy, there, who’s family can’t even afford an iPhone 5s. Ha ha! Use the social media network of your choice, except Facebook (which is passé), to shame him and/or encourage him to commit suicide.
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Brat Worst
Poop tag scored! And check out the drool. This image is a win-win. And away we go…
I still wake up sometimes. I wake up in the dark and hear the screaming of the IKEA FOOD restaurant.
There’s nothing quite like the tormented wails of tiny human miscreants especially when they are SEP (Someone Else’s Problem). Don’t leave home without it!
One thing is certain: Most parents are woefully ignorant of the true nature of their spawn.
But I’m an American and being ignorant is our God-given right! And, like most of the rights we cherish and hold most dear, don’t ever try to actually use them. Or even the inverse thereof.
Confused yet? Me, too. I should break out my calculator but this one time I won’t do that.
Long story short, a cafe owner recently caused an online fracas when, frustrated with the state of the hot mess on the floor of her eatery, she took to Facebook to express herself.
Bad idea? Yeah. It’s almost as bad as salsa from New York City. New York City?!?!? Somebody get a pickup truck. Yee-haw. Let’s ride.
I’m Clearly Not Sam Elliott but I still got something to say. And it goes down smooth.
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Garden Party
I went to a garden party to reminisce with my old friends
A chance to share old memories and play our songs again
When I got to the garden party, they all knew my name
No one recognized me, I didn’t look the same
But it’s all right now, I learned my lesson well
You see, ya can’t please everyone, so ya got to please yourself
–Ricky Nelson
Let’s just say that I’m not the most social wildebeest in the herd. Ya think? So when an invitation comes my way it’s a big, big decision. A really big decision. Monumental. Did I mention yet that it is big?
Of course I don’t want to go. That’s a given. That part is never open to debate. The only question is should I go? Put in an appearance, as it were. My normal procedure, if I go at all, is to keep it as brief as possible before doing The Slink.
For argument’s sake, let’s say the decision has been made. (It could happen.) What then?
The Slink is my trademark move. One minute I’m there and then. Poof. Hey! Has anyone seen Tom in a while?
I don’t believe in goodbyes at parties. It creates a commotion, focuses undue attention (I’m not a narcissist in real life) and can take 90 minutes or more. The Slink is the much preferable option.
But before I could activate the magical powers of The Slink something else happened. Something very untoward. Of course, great umbrage and acrimony was involved. Curious? Well load up the fucking Facebook. I’m sure you can read all about it.
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Timeline: Demo T. Vader
Demo is in the house, yo!
Every morning the guru of negativity loads up his Facebook which pushily insists, “What’s on your mind?”
Oh no. I’m not about to fall for that one.
The people you’ve connected with on Facebook are called “friends.” Laws, yes. Friends. Good one!
Of the various types of content on Facebook, my favorite goes a little something like this:
- The opening: You want something. State what it is. Ex: “I’m curious how people feel about my sexual organs.”
- The insult: Get things rolling with a jab at your so-called “friends.” Ex: “I know only approx. 4-1/2 of you ever read my posts.”
- The hook: Describe the payoff in terms of pleasure centers of the brain that will glow upon compliance. “I’m going to give you a chance to prove your friendship.”
- The plea: This is the objective, the thing you hope to see accomplished. Ex: “Reply to this with a graphic description of your favorite sexual organ on my body. Sexual organs only, please!”
- The demanding social element: This is self-explanatory. Ex: “You must then copy this to your own timeline so my ego can grow. Please don’t comment and not copy to your own timeline.”
Out of respect, I’m not going to comment because I have absolutely no intention of following your rules. Thanks for trying to control me, though.
For the record:
- Yes, I actually read your shit. And I loathe myself for it.
- You can’t handle the truth. I won’t comment on our alleged “friendship.”
- It’s news to me that you have sexual organs so I’m unable to comment further.
- I will decide what pieces of evil hate go on my timeline. Not you. Nice effort, though.
- A real friend wouldn’t have done this. Thanks for reinforcing my theories.
Has Facebook invented a squelch feature yet or must I continue to be subjected to this crap with a little help from my friends?
Shouts from the Abyss 
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