Does anyone remember a time long ago, before the internet and social media, when the only people you had to bother and bore with all your minor irritations and gripes were your close friends and immediate family? Yeah, me neither. It’s hard to even imagine a point in time when people weren’t doing shit like this, every second of every day:
Riveting stuff. Totally worthy of the 2 minutes of my life I took reading it that I will never get back. Let’s make a new rule. Imagine yourself walking into the middle of a very, very crowded room. Full of people ranging from your mother, your sister-in-law, your first second and distant third cousins, their friends, the guy down the street you sometime see when you stop for coffee on your way to work, a bunch of assholes from high school, college, and random strangers. You look around, and decide to yell out “HEY EVERYBODY THE GUY WHO PUMPS MY GAS TOLD ME HUSBAND TO SHUT OFF HIS CAR ENGINE BUT HE DOESN’T TELL ME TO!” How do their faces look? How do you feel?
Maybe you notice the slightly bemused, completely uninterested people around you. Maybe you feel embarrassed. Maybe you want to get out of there before the cops and EMTs show up to check on your wellbeing and encourage you to take your meds. I don’t know. Or maybe, just maybe, you decide “I haven’t brought enough shame upon myself and my family – time to further emasculate my husband and make myself into a bigger joke!”
Boy, let me tell you. I bet Complaint Department Cathy over here is definitely what every young man in his prime dreams of when he pictures his future wife.
Utterly castrating him in the digital equivalent of a huge, crowded room? Check.
Aging barfly with a metabolism than has slowed to a crawl as gravity does its worst? Check.
Ratchet-qualifying use of juvenile photo filters? Check.
A grating, inexplicably urgent need to forcibly shove barely coherent, angry, meaningless drivel into the eye holes of every internet passerby, IN ALL CAPS? Double check, motherfucker.
I’m usually a proponent of good old fashioned family values, but my God, I hope this man cheats. I hope he cheats a lot. I hope that’s where his manhood was that day, fully occupied elsewhere, instead of crammed into his bovine bride’s purse. There is no chance she hasn’t been slowly siphoning off his happiness and sanity year after year – don’t let her take all of your masculinity too, dude.
Honestly, the best part of this whole thing, for me, anyway, is that this lady is seemingly myopically self centered that not only did she forget that no one fucking cares about her experience getting full service gas ups, but that the gas station attendant in question is, with 99% certainty, also on Facebook, and might want to call her out on her line of attention seeking bullshit. And when he does, it’s pretty great.
I wasn’t there, so I can’t take a hard side on this one. On the one hand, it is totally plausible that a kid being paid minimum wage to pump gas in the freezing cold and cash out lotto tickets for eight plus hours a day doesn’t give 110% on the job, and maybe doesn’t feel like arguing with every overly dramatic, entitled crusty old cow that waddles her way in for a hands free fill up and pack of Parliaments. At the same time, she clearly doesn’t understand that maybe, just maybe, some people don’t want to take even a .01% chance of catching on fire so some washed up Whitesnake groupie can rest her “disabled” legs in 75 degrees of warm air in the middle of the winter. So it really isn’t out of the realm of possibility that a woman who feels this is so important is just HAS to be on a public page just blew some shit out of proportion or lied to get some attention.
In fact, I’d wager the latter, because here’s exhibit B
Listen, if you need to announce your departure from social media, only to emerge days later,
To then continue your reign of vapid, whiny terror all over the most populated corners of the internet, that’s all I really need to know. And either way, this isn’t exactly hard hitting breaking news, Tara. Lighten up.
I know that I, for one, focus so much on the innate problems I perceive within Facebook’s design that I often forget that the problem with Facebook is not always explicitly Facebook. It’s every asshole you have so much as briefly encountered, showing you every picture of everything they do all day long with every asshole they have ever met, while posting every stupid asshole thought they ever had about every date, job, party, school, funeral, porn shoot, exorcism, ritual suicide and gender neutral theybie-baby shower they have ever attended. The Guttermuppet’s penis flytrap isn’t even a gaping hole as big as the spiritual asshole Facebook represents. It’s everything, every day and it never ends, and with every picture of every stupid meal, baby, vacation and street sign you trip over splayed endlessly through the intellectual black hole that is social media we all become further entrenched in the ludicrous idea that every single idea, observation, complaint and experience that we have is so incredibly meaningful and important that everyone NEEDS to read about it. Right. Fucking. Now. They’re not, and you’re not, and I’m not. In summation – Nobody gives a fuck, Tara. Not me, not the kid who pumps your gas, not your cuckhold of a husband, and certainly not the majority of the people on the Uxbridge Town Page. Shut the hell up.
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