What a Nice Guy by Phil Torcivia

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Grease


People don’t want to waste time defending themselves, even when the critics are probably correct. We also don’t want to listen to people brag about themselves, relatives, or achievements. Lastly, we don’t need to be constantly reminded about how awful the economy and weather are.

When people log into their social media accounts, they want to hear about how wonderful they are, with a close second being hearing about how awful a rival or celebrity is. It doesn’t matter if the post is truthful. We feel recognized, loved, and appreciated when we read compliments and we feel superior when the mighty fall.

If I posted the following on your Facebook wall, even in jest, you’re probably not going to like it:

“Your breath smells like a Phoenix port-o-pot, you have puffy ankles, and the shirt you’re wearing is better suited for a table in a Mexican diner.”

Whereas, if I posted the following, it would be immediately liked and make you consider chest bumping yourself in the closest mirror:

“You are magnificent and I am fortunate to have you as a friend. Your skin is flawless, your eyes are luminous, and your intelligence is exceptional.”

Does this imply when complimenting someone, Phil is being phony? Sometimes. I don’t want to be surrounded by weepy peeps. Debbie Downers are no fun. When nearby anglers cast compliment lures, I’ll bite.

“I feel so blah today.”
“Aw, chin up there, shnookums. You’re fabulous.”
“Really? You think so?”
“I know so.”
“Well, thank you. God, these shoes are killing me.”
“Those shoes are killing me! I mean, come on. Look at your butt right now. Those shoes have made a masterpiece of your posterior and allow me to be the first to say I’d be hard-pressed to find a finer hiner.”
“Aw. You’re such a good friend.”
“I’m honored to be considered a friend. Whereas most of my acquaintances are cock-holding cretins, you inspire me to be a better me. I’m considering paying down the national debt by selling my Yankee candle collection.”
“You’re so silly.”

I bet if I created an iPhone app that texts random compliments throughout the day, it would sell like feather extensions. Women are thumb-tapping their phones all day anyway. Why shouldn’t they be interrupted by something other than the curb? In the middle of steering with her knees, sipping a latte, and texting Molly about what a horrible kisser last night’s Match date was, *bling*, a new message will pop up from the virtual nice guy.

“Hey, Janice. Your earlobes taste of honeydew and I want to nibble them.”

That would start the juices flowing, no? There would be time-of-day settings within the app, so once dinnertime comes …

“Janice, I so want to throw you on the table, smear fudge pudding on your breasts and take you to O-town right now!”

Once it’s bedtime, one final text from Virtual Phil before she snaps in the overnight charger:

“Sweet Janice, lie on your stomach, place a pillow under your hips, and clasp your hands together behind your back. I’m going to bind your wrists with a silk scarf and then devour you.”

Would you like to rate my app now? Yes? No? Later? Stop dreaming, Silly Philly.

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