My Brain’s too Slow for Facebook. You see these posts, sometimes with pictures, sometimes not, and right below are brilliant comments all made within seconds of the original posting. It’s like you have a Gatling gun that’s firing out these comments.
It takes me a while to come up with a brilliant comment, if in fact I ever do. Give me a day or two, and I’ll do my best to compete with the best.
There is a problem. When I come up with a brilliant comment, what kind is it? Is it brass brilliant, because we all know you gotta polish brass a whole lot before it looks brilliant? Is it copper brilliant, which doesn’t need as much polishing, but is never as bright as brass. Maybe it’s ironic brilliant. Ironic must come from iron which you can’t even polish to look decent, but ironic itself is kinda different, so if it’s iron brilliant that must be reinforcing the brilliance, and you don’t have to have a shine on the iron to be double brilliant.
So now I have my brilliant comment. I go on Facebook. Where’s the post that I was gonna comment on? It’s disappeared. So I start scrolling down and down and down and down.
I finally find it. If Facebook had pages, it would be page 399. I put my brass brilliant words in the comment section. The trouble is my comment doesn’t go with the post it was supposed to be going with. It’s right after a post with a picture of a horse named George.
Now it looks like my comment is related to George, and I immediately start getting those brilliant comments from people insulting me because they thought I was insulting George the horse, or am I not concerned that I have hurt George’s feelings.
I haven’t got two days to come up with a comment, because I’ve got to straighten out this misunderstanding about George, before I get another hundred comments about insensitivity to George.
I post a comment not thoroughly thought out. It’s right above a new post and picture of a car from the fifties. In my efforts to straighten out the fact I wasn’t insulting George the horse, I did mention that George was a fine horse, not a jackass.
The fellow who posted the car picture writes a comment that he has no clue about who George is, but he, the car guy, is no jackass.
I post another comment, this time trying to straighten out both the comment about George and the ‘50’s car. This appears just above the picture of a beautiful girl.
The beautiful girl posts a comment that her name is not George, and she wouldn’t ride in that 50’s car if they gave it to her.
The guy who owns the 50’s car writes that his car would have never been insulted by others if I hadn’t insulted it in the first place.
I write another comment explaining I wasn’t calling the beautiful girl George, that I thought the fellow had a fine 50’s car, and I was doing my best to not psychologically insult George.
This post goes right above a picture of a little old lady who’s showing us a picture of her prized flowers.
The lady writes a comment that she’s bringing sexual harassment charges against me because I called her beautiful, and that had implied connotations she didn’t like. And that her husband’s name is George, and that’s he’s no jackass—most of the time.
Then I post—No further comment.
It appears right above the picture of a bulldog named Paprika posted by the lady who owns Paprika.
There is a post—You have insulted my beautiful Paprika and me.