Your guide for online posts, and whom they will annoy.

stop postingOh, how I long for the day when Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest go the way of Myspace and Napster. Yes, my testicles seem to contain a substance that makes me more susceptible to anger than, say, the substance in ovaries.

For example, I was greeted on Facebook this morning with a post containing a picture of a lovely, buxom young woman with the caption, “She said yes.” Whereas most women undoubtedly saw the post, sighed, and smiled, all I could do is type sarcastic comments, and delete them before pressing enter. I had my usual seven hours of sleep, and I was in a pleasant mood.

Sample comments from ole grumpy me:

  1. Was the question, “Would you bounce if you fell on your tits?”
  2. Was the question, “How would you like a shiny new ring, and someone to nag for the next seven years or so?”
  3. How drunk was she?
  4. How drunk were you?
  5. Wow, guess I should stop sleeping with her.
  6. Were you holding a gun or jewelry?
  7. Ha ha ha, yeah, sure she did. I can find pictures of a pretty woman, and post them too. Here: Sandra Bullock just said yes.
  8. That’s funny, the guy she posted on her page isn’t you.

Scrolling down a bit, I find pictures of cute kids. Cuteness is subjective. Maybe I don’t find a toddler standing on the table in a restaurant to be cute. Maybe I find that gross. Maybe it’s because I have no offspring, and, if I did, I’d have enough sense to hire a babysitter, instead of having my child walk pee pee shoes over a public eating surface.

Next, I find pictures of people on vacation. Lovely, but why must your legs, toes, and beer be in the photo? I believe you–you’re on vacation, and you can have alcohol during the day because you’re not working today. Yippie! Don’t need evidence. Don’t care that much, actually. How nice–you shaved/tanned your legs. Still unimpressive. Next time, stand up, walk where there are few (or topless) people, keep your back to the sun, point and tap, post, then tag yourself.

Now, my favorite posts: the political and religious ones. Nobody but you cares who you like or dislike and why. That’s because nobody will be convinced to like or dislike something just because you like or dislike it. Bash Obama, bash the Tea Party, bash the Cowboys, and nobody cares. Praise Jesus, Buddha, your yoga instructor, or your mom, and nobody cares. Guess what? I hate warm wine, and I love fried pepperoni. See that? You don’t care.

I don’t fucking know. What should we be posting? Recipes, maybe? I’m always open to humor. Post a joke, or a silly dog picture, and I’ll chuckle. Nice job. You’ve brightened my day. I’ll take a quote–even Dr. Seuss. That works. Selling something? Sure. What you got? Maybe you’re looking to hire someone, or get hired. OK. Might know someone. Hey, I’m always up for a nice boob. Post a boob. There ya go. Thumbs fucking up.

We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey.

unfriend(quote by Kenji Miyazawa)

I preferred the days when if someone pissed you off, you handled the situation with a pistol and ten steps. Nowadays, if a friend does you wrong you need to rush online to un-friend them before they un-friend you. We’re such pussies. If the person did you way wrong, then you need to block them. Good luck finding that button. Next, you need to go through all the pictures they have of you and untag yourself and save your own version of the picture, scribble out the offending party’s face using Photoshop, and then repost it on your own profile. Whenever I find a Match.com profile picture with Mr. Ex painted-over, I know to avoid that woman.

Then there’s the mobile phone conundrum: Do you delete the contact to remove any possible alcohol-induced temptation to reconnect at the hips? You do realize if you do this you will also not be able to identify a call or text from the cretin. That might be a good thing, because what is more offensive than responding to the ex with, “I’m sorry. Who is this?” Insignificance is so painful. If you strike the ex from your contacts, what do you do with the lengthy string of text messages, photos, and emails? Perhaps there should be an ex archive where you can send all of this awfulness, in case it needs to be retrieved for legal or medical reasons.

If the relationship lasted more than a few hours (good for you), there’s probably a physical item or two that has been orphaned. These items include toothbrushes, creams, lotions, soaps, shampoos, earrings, bracelets, hair pulls, mini cologne sprays, books, DVDs, clothing, lubricants, toys, and various kitchen items. You won’t realize some of these things are missing for days or weeks. When you do, you need to weigh the importance of the item and replacement value with the painful exercise of contacting the ex and figuring out how to retrieve the item(s) without coming face-to-face with ole monkey-face. Most people opt with “Leave items in plain paper bag on porch while I’m at work.” A superior choice, if you must, would be to send a prepaid UPS box. Be aware the female exes are sometimes so jilted that this option may result in a quick revenge fuck with the sexy UPS fellow. Let’s hope that gets you a future discount, or at least on his Christmas card list.

The final decision is what to do about the places you both frequent. Lord knows we can’t have other patrons seeing you both in the same establishment (like they give two shits). This is a tough one to work out. Chances are you will both avoid the establishment and find a new one. This will annoy your friends, who like the original establishment and would highly prefer you grew a pair (balls or labia). The best solution is to silently agree that the first person in the establishment gets dibs and the second gets lost. This should be silently understood. No need to yell, “Scram, fucker!” in a crowded wine bar.

If you need any further rulings on parting, feel free to contact me. I’m an expert breakologist, and I work for fermented grapes.

How to fib on Facebook.

Not that you’d ever do such a thing. You’re entirely too honest and sharing. Yet, you must admit there are lighter lies, which should be deployed in order to duck a stalker, avoid hurting someone’s feelings, keep from being scolded like an infant, or having children/roommates/crooks take advantage of your absence. Facebook enables your fibbery (new word). You simply need to know what’s involved in concocting the fabrication.

Please allow Attorney (not) Phil to guide you.

Step 1: Do not allow anyone to tag you without your approval. You’ll get yourself into enough hot water; you don’t need some hyper-photo-active nitwit to tag you in an unflattering photo. Examples I’ve seen mostly involve restroom stalls, unsightly stains, or exposed parts of your body you’d rather not have exposed. Alt+Tab over to Facebook right now and click the down triangle on the upper-right, Privacy Settings, Edit Settings next to How Tags Work, then turn on Timeline Review and Tag Review, and turn off Friends Can Check You In. That should partially cover your mischievous little butt.

Step 2: Misdirection. You don’t actually need to be in a certain place to claim you are there. Let’s say your mother has been eying your wine tower, discovering the vodka in the freezer, and plotting an intervention. This is not good. One must drink. If you continually check in at pubs, clubs, and wine bars, you’re going to feed her neuroses. She’s going to vent to your father about her displeasure with your activities (probably in a foreign language) and, since his gene pool will be implicated, he’ll be displeased with your Facebook-documented binges. Hence, tag yourself at church, a homeless shelter, or library. Make sure any associated photos don’t include purple tongues, martini glasses, or beer bongs.

Step 3: Use code words for certain activities that only your closest friends know. This is important. Your boss or perspective employer will check social media to see if you’re a miscreant and, although they won’t admit it, they will judge you thereby. (I proudly admit that I am a scoundrel and I don’t give a doo-doo because I’m the boss of me.) So, when you post a status update, use code words. Here’s a handy guide I’ll license you for the fee of one chilled tequila with lime and salt:

  • Bar -> Office
  • Dancing -> Working
  • Doing Shots -> Making Copies
  • Buying Shoes -> Visiting the Fruit Stand
  • Getting Laid -> Bowling
  • Watching Porn -> Sorting Recipes
  • Hangover -> Migraine
  • Public Urination -> Watering the Lawn
  • Vomiting -> Talking with an Old Friend, Burt
  • Masturbating -> Doing Laundry
  • Wine Guzzling -> Making a Stew
  • Hair Removal or Trimming from Privates -> Vacuuming
  • Smoking Weed -> Baking
  • On the Toilet -> Taking Your Children to the Pool (WARNING: This only works if you have brown children or white poo.)

Let’s say you spent last night getting hammered at an Irish pub, you don’t remember how you got home, and you woke up with your underwear in your pocket. You can’t very well post that, now can you? Instead, post “I woke up with a migraine, but after sorting recipes and doing laundry, I worked it off at my office. Right now I’m making copies and hoping to go bowling later tonight.”

Are your friends annoying as paparazzi?

Sally has lost all of her interpersonal skills. She now resides within social media. She checks in everywhere, tweets hourly, and is constantly snapping iPhone pictures and uploading them. You used to like Sally and enjoy her company. You now consider tossing her phone into a margarita blender.

She always wants to pose with you when you’re not feeling at your best. Then, she hands her phone to a gap-toothed cretin who hasn’t progressed beyond a flip.

  • Sally returns to pose, hugging you a bit inappropriately.
  • He points the iPhone the wrong direction. Sally corrects him.
  • He counts to three and pushes the edge of the phone. Sally corrects him.
  • He counts to three, but at two Sally stops him because he’s covering the lens area.
  • He counts to three and nothing happens, so he turns the iPhone around to investigate; it flashes in his face; Sally now has a picture of his nose. Sally tells him there’s a delay.
  • He counts to five, thinking that would solve the timing issue. The phone flashes at seven.
  • Sally takes the camera, checks the photo, and realizes you had your eyes closed. Your drink is nearly empty and you’d rather suffer an under-nail splinter than a retake.
  • He tries again, but someone walks in front as he takes the picture.
  • He tries again, but an idiot is holding rabbit ears up behind your head.
  • He tries again, and you sprint away before she can force another shot.

Sally spends close to five minutes posting the photo to Foursquare and Facebook while tagging everyone within a twenty-foot radius. You’re notified on your phone. Your mother texts you suggesting you may have a drinking problem. “Thanks, Sally.”

A nice gentleman approaches and asks the usual questions a stranger poses to someone he’d eventually love to penetrate. Sally notices and screeches about how cute you two are. She deploys the dreaded iPhone and demands a photo. The new guy stands next to you and smiles. That’s not good enough for Sally.

“Come on, you two. You’re acting like strangers. Get closer.”
“Sally, I just met him.”
“We’re all friends here. Hug her, Mister … hey, what’s your name?”
“Trevor.”
“Hug her, Trevor. She’s a hottie.”
“All right.”

Great. You permit the cuddle. One picture isn’t enough. She takes six, thinking she’s doing you a favor. Sally needs a beating. Sally remarks about what a nice couple you make, but she doesn’t show you the pictures, which she posts and tags. You receive a text message from your mother reminding you to use condoms. Your ex-boyfriend sends you a text calling you a heartless skank-ho. You leave the bar and plot your revenge.

Shameless – Hey, look at me!

If you’re going to sit around waiting for someone else to toot your flute, you’d better have a good book to read to help you pass the time. (Have I mentioned my book, What a Nice Guy, is available and free at Amazon today?) You can’t wait for attention and praise; you need to stand up to be noticed.

I can think of only three cases where you’ll have someone speak up on your behalf:

  1. At your wedding. That’s quite an investment for a bit of glass tink-tink-tinking and a silly speech by the best man, who knows you so well that he needs to read the words from the back of a champagne-soaked gift receipt.
  2. At your retirement. You think you’re popular and will be dearly missed by your coworkers. Untrue. You know who is popular? The intern who wears the short skirts and had an accidental nipple exposure at this year’s holiday party.
  3. At your funeral. An inebriated priest will ramble on about what a wonderful person you were as people stand around thinking about how much it would suck to be you right now, while anxiously awaiting the unveiling of the cold cut platters.

Social media isn’t the best place to pound your chest. (Although, I heard there’s one cool fan page–I recall it’s something like Facebook.com/SuchaNiceGuy.) Actually, I prefer to know what you had for breakfast to seeing another picture of your kids (not cute) and dogs (so gross) doing unspectacular things. I have no kids or dogs, but I do have lovely cats (@SydTorcivia and @SymonTorcivia) that don’t bark but usually bury their doo-doos and make clever, racist jokes at each other’s expense on Twitter.

Here are more ideas for you to consider:

  • Wear a t-shirt with “Free to a good home. Shots current and neutered.”
  • Run a paid search campaign on Google under keywords including awesome, cute, wonderful, fantastic, majestic, person of the year, saintly, and hung/tight (one or the other, people). Do not run any ads under the search term “nice” unless you’re as nice as I am, which is highly unlikely. Sorry.
  • If you’re in southern California, hire a sign spinner to post up in front of your home with a sign reading, “A brilliant person lives here. Please leave flowers.”
  • Your rear windshield has so much wasted space. Grab a bar of Ivory soap and write a little ode to self. How about “Not only am I a talented driver; I smell good too”?
  • Get a cover for your Kindle, Nook, or iPad that reads, “Look at the big brain on me.”
  • Too many conference nametags go to waste. Where does it say you need to be attending a conference in order to wear one? Go to Staples and buy a stack. From now on, part of your morning routine will be pasting a nametag on your chest that says, “Hello, I’m magnificent.”

Isn’t this excellent advice? See? This writer must be talented. Boy, if I were you I’d be remiss to let the day pass without picking up a FREE (no shipping fees or tax either) eBook by this brilliant author: What a Nice Guy by @PhilTorcivia.

Sarcasm – It beats killing people.

Facebook has turned into one large mosaic of inspirational, humorous, and political pictures and quotes. I feel like I’m at freaking Spencer’s. This is why I prefer porn.

FDA

People, please! Icksnay with the FDA (Facebook Displays of Affection). Perhaps I am sour because I have nobody to make the other half of my hand-heart picture. Or, perhaps I am bothered by braggarts. Go ahead, walk the city streets arm-in-arm if you must. I pardon you. But, if you post one more lovey-dovey Facebook picture, I’m unfriending you until your relationship implodes. Then, I’ll remind you to untag yourself and interview you for a future essay.

The kid thing bugs me too. Again, perhaps it’s because I never found a penetrable egg or because my disconnected juevos guarantee I’ll never change a diaper or wear shoulder puke. Whatever. Parents, believe me when I tell you (because your friends and relatives won’t), your kids are considered cute by two to six (if we include grandparents) people. Your Facebook pals may deliver the compliments you seek, but they’d much rather see funny captions on pictures of Kmart shoppers.

I blame weddings for this annoyance. They are grand displays of opulence designed to satisfy the ego, generate startup capital, and brag–to those of us who choose to maintain a single toothbrush–about how “fortunate” the lovers are to have found each other. Here’s what a wedding should consist of:

  • I promise not to stick my dick in any other vaginas.
  • I promise not to allow any other dicks to enter my vagina.
  • I now pronounce you wife and husband (ladies first).

That’s one recession-proof matrimony right there. No candy-coated almonds or netting required.

“Wow, you two got married.”

“Yep.”

“I didn’t see anything about it on Facebook.”

“That’s because we’re not attention whores.”

“Where was the reception?”

“On our sofa. You weren’t invited.”

“Well, still, if I knew, I would have gotten you a gift.”

“All right, buy me a beer and my wife drinks vodka.”

“Where did you spend your honeymoon?”

“At work.”

“That sucks.”

“Depends on the job, doesn’t it?”

“Good point.”

Aw, another cute couple just popped up on my feed: Jack and Jill in little aprons cooking dinner. (Gag!) They look so happy together. (Barf!) Ooh, the candle lit table with fine china. (Burp.) The fancy plates of food: chicken, colorful carrots, and stinky-pee asparagus. (Yick.) Look, empty plates with tiny gravy smears. (Blech.) Now, the happy couple snuggles on the loveseat with cups of tea and scones while watching a romantic comedy. (Boo, hiss.)

Who’s taking these pictures? Why isn’t the photographer refusing to do so unless threatened at gunpoint?

No more moochie faces, people. Quit it. Next time you’re tempted to post an FDA, imagine you’re on a sit-com set with a studio audience of sarcastic pricks like me. Consider that we enjoy pictures of bikini babes, MMA knockouts, and expensive cars. We pass along videos of bikers going off cliffs, baseballs connecting with man-balls, and shit blowing up. Now, go right ahead and audition your little love-fest for us. Look lovingly into your soulmate’s eyes and be prepared to be showered in asshole-ades.

Feed

People are running out of things to talk about. The weather is too hot, cold, or wet. *yawn* The stock market is up or down. *frown* I watched last night’s show or I missed it. *shrug* To generate interesting chitchat, we need something new to whine about.

“Did you notice the new Facebook feed layout?”

“Yup.”

“I can’t believe they would do that. Those guys are so clueless.”

“Yet, you were on it all day.”

“Why didn’t they consult anyone before they made such drastic changes?”

“You mean why didn’t they consult you, right?”

“Oh, come on. I’m not the only person who has a problem with it. Haven’t you seen all of the complaints?”

“Yes. I saw them displayed on the new feed. It was convenient.”

“Why are you defending them?”

“Because they have their reasons, which are financial reasons based on research we’re not privy to. A week from now you won’t even notice.”

Complaining on Facebook about the new Facebook layout just seems weird to me. It’s like going into Starbucks and ordering a macchiato and then walking around the store drinking it while telling everyone in line how much you hate it. If I were in line and heard your complaint, I’d consider the source as credible as penis enlargement cream.

Imagine if you did any of the following:

  • Bought tickets to an MLB playoff game, sat behind the dugout, and complained the entire ballgame that pitchers don’t throw spitballs anymore and long balls suck since the steroid ban.
  • Drove a Prius down the highway and pointed out the ugly Nissan Leaf that just passed you.
  • Pushed a flatbed around Costco, loaded with toilet paper, cases of soda, and oversized boxes of cereal while complaining that the soda was inconveniently located in the rear corner of the store for “no apparent reason.” (The reason is quite apparent, actually: Costco wants you to encounter as many sales as possible on your way to the popular fizzy sugar.)
  • Stood at the grocery store’s self-scan checkout and complained you don’t know the code for peaches.
  • Sat in a bathroom stall, begging your neighbor for a courtesy flush after giving birth to a nostril singeing stank stew of your own.
  • Whining to the fast-food drive thru clerk that people take too long to order at the drive thru.

I get it: Nobody likes change. People find it easier to adapt when they can pout, stomp, and protest first. Isn’t it better to expect change and embrace it? My cats get it. The minute I change the litter, those two little fuckers race to see who can be the first to soil it. They don’t stare angrily at me while filling out a comment card. Granted, I have exceptionally smart and tolerant kitties, but still, even moronic mutts adapt to change.

So, fellow Facebookers, let’s take it easy on poor Zuckerberg and his minions. He has billions of reasons to disregard your angst. Why waste it on him when you can always complain about gas prices.