There are so many things that I could take to this blog and bitch about. I mean, ever since the events of the Presidential election last year, there are new offenses every single day. Sometimes there are multiple ones in an hour. It has become crazy, and I find myself being pulled down by it with every, single blasphemous incident. There are millions who feel the same way, and I think our biggest outrage is reserved for the fact that there are millions who don’t feel the same way, and still others who are able to shrug it all off because they imagine that it doesn’t affect them and nothing’s going to get in the way of them living their lives. Well, nothing, that is, until something does. I am not a pessimist, nor am I an optimist – I like to characterize myself as a pessi-optimist – but I have a feeling, in my gut, that shit’s about to get real. I mean, millions woke up yesterday in Hawaii thinking they only had 10 minutes to live, due to a glitch and a false report of North Korea firing its missiles at the islands. It took a full 40 minutes of golf time (I’m not going to say exactly who was playing golf for 40 minutes while a state was under the assumption that it was about to be obliterated off the planet, but it was not Barack Obama or Hillary Clinton.) before the problem was assessed and an announcement was made about the error. Oops, stuck in a sand trap, so sorry about that. Mahalo!
I have freaked out here before about that orange catastrophe in the White House. No, Sarah Huckabee Sanders did not spill her Fanta. All that would have done is improve her wardrobe. Today, I want to laugh. I have had the Plague for what feels like a million days and I am, at last, beginning to to feel better, and I want to laugh. Plus, it’s Dave Grohl’s birthday and celebrations must be held and fervent worship should be lavished upon such a God. He is the only God I want to be screaming “Oh Jesus!” to. Ummmm, yeah, I went there. And it’s okay. He’s on the laminated list.
Okay, here are a few things that make me laugh. Let’s begin, shall we, with the sort of ads that Facebook thinks I want to see in my feed. We all have a vague sort of understanding about the algorithms Facebook and other websites use that seem to reach into our brains and pick them. Search online for a bra? Facebook will suddenly inundate your feed with great deals on bras. Even if you didn’t originally click on a bra ad on Facebook, that’s okay; Facebook still knows. Actually, I’m lying. It isn’t okay. You search on Google for a bra and Facebook somehow knows? It’s like there’s a sort of peeping Tom, underground KGB shit going on in the interwebs that knows your every click. And well, I guess that’s the thing; they do. They know what you do. They can trace it. They watch. And they can come after you if you do some shady shit, so don’t do shady shit. I’m just saying; if you do a search for “Clowns in ladies’ negligees”, someone’s gonna see that shit and the jig will be up. Not only are you a sick fuck because clowns are evil and no one in their right mind wants to see a clown in a negligee, but you are banned from ever using any of my devices because I will cut you if I ever see a clown in a negligee.
Anyway, let’s get back to me and my innocent web search for a dress for my daughter’s wedding last year. I wanted something beautiful, and I found a gorgeous, vintage dress, which I purchased. It was absolutely smashing but then when the day dawned, it was unseasonably cold and I had to wear something else. I was disappointed and am waiting for an occasion to wear a vintage-style flapper dress someday. I don’t know when that will be, since I am a hermit crab/hobbit and never go anywhere. The ideal scenario would be for me to discover a time machine, put the dress on, and be transported back to do the Charleston with George Bailey at Harry’s high school dance instead of Mary doing it and then George and I could fall in the pool after Alfalfa opened the floor and then make passionate love in the locker room afterward instead of how it ended up going down with Donna Reed. I mean, damn, she was a really nice girl but the sexual tension was ridiculous and if it had been me, I would have let him do me up against a locker and fuck the wrestler robe and the Buffalo Gals. Youth is wasted on the wrong people.
Back to the dress and the algorithms and Facebook’s assumptions about what I want to wear. You thought I had forgotten, didn’t you? Between Dave Grohl and a dashing, young Jimmy Stewart, I confess I almost did. So I bought that gorgeous dress, and never bought another dress online after that. I did look at a maxi dress here and there, but apparently Facebook thinks that what I really want is not a maxi dress. Facebook thinks I want these:
Oh, and not to be too predictable, this gem:
Not a single maxi dress in my feed. Just vintage-inspired June Cleaver nightmares and porn star bodycon. Someone mixed up my algorithms with Betty Boop.
Facebook also thinks I need this ring, because I see it every day. Not gonna lie. I love it. Someone should tell the husband, because if I do, it’ll just be obvious and I ought to just buy it myself and save him the trouble of figuring out what would be The Perfect Valentine’s Day Gift.
Another thing that I find absolutely hilarious? Google “Donald Trump and his imaginary accordion” and watch the video. You will die. I cannot say anything positive about that f’n guy except that he makes this stuff sooooo easy.
I also find these things hilarious. Except when they refer to my vagene as a kipper. Why would anyone want to name their vagina after a fish? I’ve known women who smelled as if they stored them in there, but really? A kipper?
I do want to assert that if this chart was the ass-backward way that one could pick out one’s name, I would want to be Fiona Kline.
Let’s go back to algorithms for a moment. This is what Facebook thinks I need. I feel that I should point out that I do not go out in nature and traipse about in the snow, and neither do my cats. They are hobbits, just like me.
I don’t know about you, but I’m laughing. Laugh with me, okay? Not at me. I know, it’s hard to not conjure up the kind of person I seem to be based upon my Facebook algorithms and assume that I am a woman who wears Donna Reed’s wardrobe, takes nature walks during snowstorms with her cat, and names her vagina. I would laugh at that woman, and probably offer to call her a cab back to Pleasantville. I am the sort of woman who finds Sir Ian McKellan and Patrick Stewart cuddling on a ferris wheel in matching derby hats adorable, though, and I much prefer that woman. Suck it, Facebook!