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.
As a diehard old school AOL account holder, mom had very selective knowledge of the internet. Email and sending pictures. That was about it. At least until she discovered the stalking abilities of Facebook.
All of the sudden she was a technological sponge. She was grokking things. Things involving a computer! I know!
So, there it was this morning. A public message from mom. On my timeline. For everyone to see. “When is your wife’s birthday?” Yeah, not everyone has a Facebook account and not everyone broadcasts the date like it’s a bloody holiday. At least she didn’t ask about my underwear.
I decided to respond in private. Ha ha! I get an ounce of control! Neener.
“March 5.” Eloquent, eh? Yeah, I’m a wordsmith.
Ding! “Oh shit! I’m late!!!”
Ding! “What did you do for her?”
Ding! “Please tell her my greeting is on the way!”
Ding! “How did her surgery go?”
Mothafuka. (In other words, I blame dad.)
Not too bad. Let’s tally the Round One damage, shall we? Two follow-up questions and one directive. Not a TKO but she did land some body blows. And my spidey sense is already tingling that a haymaker is on the way.
I must be cautious, I thought, as I considered my reply.
“I took her and the gerbil out to a fancy, trendy, expensive, hipster brunch in Portland where food was served on small plates by fedora-wearing bearded women.” On the plus side, my Bloody Mary did contain a piece of beef jerky, so it wasn’t all bad.
Ding! “Oh, the son showed up?”
Ding! “When did this happen?”
Ding! “How long has he been there?”
Ding! “How did it go?”
Ding! “What’s he been up to?”
Ding! “Did he get a job?”
Ding! “Did he get his GED?”
Shit. Missed it by that much. Round Two also goes to mom’s corner. Why did I bring up the kid? What was I thinking? I’m a failure!
In Round Three she decided to go freestyle.
Ding! “When is your wedding anniversary?”
Ding! “How many years will that be?”
Ding! “How are the cats?”
Ding! “Did your wife get a job?”
Ding! “How old is she now?”
Ding! “Did you clean your plate?”
Ding! “Should I send a care package with underwear?”
Fortunately the referee forced us to break and called the bout. I pretended my browser had crashed and quickly closed the tab containing Facebook. I prayed she wouldn’t be notified that I had performed this action.
Too late! One last message got through.
Ding! “When are you coming to visit?”
Does anyone know if Facebook has a feature for deliberately losing your password? Please let me know!
Addendum: Mom just broke out of the private conversation and went back to my public timeline. “I put something in the mail for her today.” She knows what she’s doing. I guess she wants everyone to know, eh?