Online social networking has ruined me. Destroyed me. Kicked me in the pills. Administered to my unconscious body a flying elbow from the top turnbuckle.
I am Facebook’s bitch, and Twitter’s fourth favorite ho.
Thanks to social networking, I’ve become The Highlander: I know everything. But the price! The terrible, grisly price!
Blogging’s not so bad. In fact, blogging is the balls. It’s one-way communication. The only glimmer of darkness I glean from my readers are the far-too-occasional reader’s comments and the raw data from Google Analytics (“Mean wearing tampons”). I don’t know you, thank Christ, and the only thing you know about me is what I allow you to know.
Damn my digital eyes, why didn’t I just keep it that way?
Thanks to Facebook and Twitter, I know which of my friends are right wing extremists. I know who watches The Bachelor and who has accepted Christ as their savior. I know who just bought a tanning bed. I know who is pissed by the lack of live TV coverage of the Boston Marathon. I know whose kid just shat on their Thomas the Train Engine table. I know that way too many people are “is,” and that way too many people “need coffee.” I’ve learned that a surprising number of people that graduated from my high school have joined the clergy. I know who ranks Tombstone in their Top Five Movies of All Time. I know who needs a haircut. I know when Kevin Smith is jonesing for a booty call. I know that GOD IS AWESOME!!! I know the brain-numbing details of a porn star’s purchase of a house in Los Angeles. I know who’s celebrating a birthday today. I know who’s “loving this weather!” I know more song lyrics than I used to because too many people substitute song lyrics for a status update. I have come to understand the strength of the iron grip American Idol has on society. I know who wishes it were Friday, who “works for the weekend,” and who hates Mondays. I know who’s a Democrat, who’s a Republican, and who could care less. I’m stunned by how many people want to “put Christ back in public schools.” I know who is a fan of toast, and I know I am one of them. I don’t know who Harold Higgons is, but Facebook thinks he and I could be friends. I know what B-list celebrity Brooke Burks is up too this morning (Going to the beach without the nanny!). I know who wants to challenge me in Scrabble, and at least two people who need to make their move, like, any day now. I know who likes country music. I know who likes Poison. I know a friend who fears liberals but wants to meet Charles Manson. I know one friend’s Five Favorite British Actors, and I’ve never heard of any of them. I know who pretends to be afraid of clowns. I know plays Mafia Wars and who plays Mob Wars. I know the difference between Mafia Wars and Mob Wars. I know whose Dad is in the hospital and whose kid has an ear infection. I know who wishes they were outside. I know who really needs a girlfriend bad. I know who is on Facebook right now.
I know way too much.
The mystery is gone. It’s not really Facebook; it’s Open Book. The thrill of gradually getting to know someone – a process that once took an entire lifetime – has become a 45-second dump load. You shouldn’t judge a book by it’s cover, but you can judge a person my his or her Facebook page.
And to this inhumane process, I say, please join.
Do it. Do it now. Facebook. Twitter. Reddit. LinkedIn. MySpace. Sign up and log in. (Okay, maybe not MySpace.) Like it or not, online social networking is how we’re all going to communicate in ten years. How do I know?
Remember how people resisted online banking? Or just buying anything online? Remember how people clung to the checkbooks like it was the Koran rather than just getting a debit card? Remember how we scorned the soullessness of microwaves? Or how we bitterly lamented the global subjugation of cellular phones?
Hell, even automobiles, televisions, and car radios had their doubters.
As the great Peter Grifen might say, your acclimation to online social media is like sex with Kobe Bryant: you can struggle, resist, even scream, but it’s gonna happen.
You can hop aboard now and get a seat on front of the bus, or you can climb on later when it’s standing room only and your face is lodged in some shirtless man’s hair armpit. Makes no difference, because I’m going to see you here eventually.
And then I’ll know everything about you.
Do you sense that you read this very same post last year? Bite me, thankless reader! Sorry if Angry Czeck’s content isn’t as fresh as you like! You try pounding out three original posts every month. I’m sure there are plenty of cut-n-paste bloggers out there who would love your business.