“Husband Hacked Wife to Death With Meat Cleaver After She Changed her Facebook Status to Single.”
How’s that for a self-explanatory headline? You could click over to actually read the story but, really, what’s the point? You know what happened.
The important thing is that Facebook has finally gotten someone killed. It’s about time. Although we cannot blame the digital inspiration any more than we can blame the cleaver, far too many people for far too long have been speaking far too often. To each other. It cannot end well.
I, for one, have noticed that the longer I talk to a person, the more reasons I have to kill them.
Yet it seemed that the humans were doing okay.
Mainly, they used the site to find and fuck each other, keep track of events and organize their lives. You could easily seek out the mutually interested, keep an address books of sorts and even play games. With each others’ heads. (Poke, poke.) All utterly harmless.
The worst scandals were always something along these lines:
And that’s not so bad. A bit irritating when I walk home from work each Friday and have to pass The Drake, The Social and The Gladstone but certainly not the end of the world. Just of our civilization.
So I have nothing against Facebook. I’m accustomed to stepping over the meaty debris, while keeping my patent leather shoes clean, and whistling right past the graveyard. It’s what I do. These days, short of molotov cocktails and gas chambers, it seems to be about all one can do. I’m just grateful that I quit drinking at precisely the correct moment.
Facebook is just another step towards the hive mind that is utterly inevitable if we are to survive. I look forward to the day when every crime is a facebook related; when we all have this service implanted into our heads, combined with biometrics and can access the profiles of every stranger we happen to pass on the street. If you want privacy, stay in the washroom. If you want the truth, don’t even get off the toilet.
But watching all these humans interact without bloodshed made me shudder. They weren’t exactly behaving well — not exactly . . .
. . . but they hadn’t started murdering each other either.
I was reminded of the pleasant bonobo, our closest relative, who solves social stresses through the liberal application of sex. Maybe there is hope for us. Then I read about Bonobos hunting and killing other animals. Okay. They are bonobos after all. It’s just good to see that people are still bonobos too.
