It's been a fortnight since I got out of Facebook Jail. I've been careful to not offend folks on Facebook (delicate blades of grass), despite now having a fallback position with a kinder and sweeter personality -- who has only 32 friends, unlike my vicious bitchy five hundred plus friend self -- because, as you must realise, being able to post on Facebook assures our nearest and dearest (all five hundred plus of them) that we are still alive, haven't croaked in our sleep surrounded by years of hoarded newspapers and Danish butter cookie tins.
And are not feeding our desperate dogs who can't escape.
Especially my relatives in Canada.
I have not joined the choir invisible.
What Mark Zuckerberg and his droogs need to understand is that they should cease catering to the oversensitive and easily triggered vegans out there, who are incapable of tolerance and joy anyhow, and that there must be an alternative to thin ice for mature individuals who really don't give a flying interourse if wheatgerm freaks get bent out a bit.
Or, to put it differently, Fart Book.
A social media platform for crusty old eccentrics. A place for pipesmoking men, many of whom are childless or divorced, have no family living within a hundred miles, avoid all sportsbars and vegetarian restaurants, and wear plaid shirts and rumpled slacks over baggy underwear that they have washed and sterilised till it's falling apart since the Great Depression.
Make it happen.
Where the emoticons are rabid.
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