What a Nice Guy by Phil Torcivia

Sunday, September 25, 2011

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.

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