Saturday, March 3, 2012

Facebook Fury -- Number Two

I know I’ve pooped all over Facebook’s parade before, yet continue to use it daily and even have a fan page dedicated to this steaming pile of lingual ass splatter there (which has 1400 followers while this shithole site has 44-- things that make you go Pffffffffft) but Kimmy’s got a new bitch to pitch and believe it or not it has NOTHING to do with Timeline. I think the other 8 billion users have crapped out enough of those complaints to tide us all over until the next seismic shift in format has everyone’s colons clenching with contempt.

No, the log of lament I’m about to lay has to do with fucking Facebook following me. It trails each and every one of us wherever we go on the internet like toilet paper stuck to the bottom of our shoes that will not be shaken off, no matter how much we try to free ourselves by stomping on it with our other foot. Because there’s a two-ply parasite clinging to both of our hooker heels. Shut up, it made sense in my head.

Anyway, what I’m TRYING to squeeze out here is that Facebook is lurking behind us whenever we are on the web and reporting our every move on our friends’ (and that term is more loose than a lactose intolerant kid’s stool at an ice cream social) news feeds.

I used to think of social networking as a nice, ethereal hallway; where we can all step out of our solitude and catch up with friends and acquaintances and, most importantly, share pictures of our cats with funny little misspelled phrases sprinkled in for extra flavah. Now there’s a toilet smack dab in the center of that creepy corridor, and everyone sees your shit all the time-- regardless of how much discomfort it creates for everyone involved.

What, are you a nervous poo-er?

It’s gotten to the point where I won’t even check my Yahoo mail account, for fear of accidentally clicking on a story about the Oompa Loompa that will eventually tunnel its way out of Snooki’s vagina (speaking of things that are loose). As a result of my misclick anyone I’ve ever known sees right at the top of their screen that I read that excrement of evil and pretty soon I’m facing an uncomfortable intervention, because everyone thinks I’ve become obsessed with shithead pseudo-celebrities. Well fuck that, consider that email account abandoned. Which also explains why it got hacked the other day and sent everyone in my contacts list some sort of erectile dysfunction tips complete with pictures comparing aroused and flaccid penises, but somehow that seems less embarrassing.

Which brings me to Spotify (nice fucking segue, shithead). Apparently it’s some sort of music player that lets you listen to anything for free. All I know is it makes me lose respect for people that never did anything to wrong me because a blurb will come across my newsfeed saying “Dick Twat is listening to John Mayer on Spotify.” Dick Twat always seemed like a nice guy. Even had cute cat pictures. But suddenly I’m overcome with the urge to launch a turd torpedo at his stupid face for being such a douchebag. (For more of Kimmy’s thoughts on John Mayer, click here.) Likewise, sometimes I like to jam out to music I wouldn’t normally admit to liking. Maybe it’s an 80’s hair band ballads sort of night, because every rose does have its thorn. Or perhaps I just want to hear Mama Judd and her fat daughter harmonize about their grandpa reminiscing on the good ole’ days. Which, by the way, shouldn’t one of them be singing “dad” while the other sings “grandpa”?? Although it is country music; who knows what sort of fucked up root system that family tree might have. Anyway, these lapses into the land of music mediocrity (okay, more like music crappidity) happen from time to time when the mood strikes, but I definitely wouldn’t want that shit posted all over the internet. (Luckily for me no one reads this mound of manure so I’m still safe.)

I’m not sure what the shit this Pinterest phenomenon is, but I’m assuming it must be some sort of weirdly labeled voodoo doll with all the friends I see sticking pins into it. I personally prefer to keep all of my voodoo and other sordid sorcery private, so I refuse to investigate this site any further. But the updates need to stop. Unless someone has a great acupuncture of the ass story, I really don’t need to see who pinned what to where.

What’s next, broadcasting all of our Google searches? Should I suddenly feel ashamed for searching “image of leprechaun defecating on dead unicorn” every few days? Hey, you never know when something new will spring up.

Getting closer, interwebs. Getting closer.

What I’m trying to say is-- stop sifting through our feces, Facebook! If we want all of our acquaintances to know what we’re doing, we’ll just add a text box to our cute kitty pictures to pass it along. Or, use that little “status update” thingy, although with all the shit you’re posting for us it seems a little redundant to keep that crap lying around. Perhaps you could euthanize it but mark the day it died with asterisks on our Timelines. Right next to that time we got hammered and posted our undying love on each of our exes’ walls. (Like it was only once.)

Anyway I just wanted to end this post about unsolicited information by letting you turds know everything I’ve been up to in the last few weeks, whether you care or not. A couple of weeks ago I was invited to do a guest blog post on Holdin’ Holden, which you can check out here. I just joined the faculty of (I’m like the hot substitute teacher, minus the hot part); my first lesson can be viewed here. I’ve also been listening to Def Leppard the entire time it took to pass this colon clump of a post and have added six new pins to the doll labeled “John Mayer.” 


  1. Marry me?? I snorted way too many times not to marry you.

  2. while your colon might be clenching in contempt, mine is lax with love.. ok, so that was wrong. but LOL!!!!