I Don’t Give a Shit About Your Kids on Facebook: By Adam Hornyak
I Don’t Give a Shit About Your Kids on Facebook
I’m sick of this. Every time I log on to my Facebook page, I see the same boring crap over and over again, and I’m finally fed up with it. Every post seems to be the same mundane garbage about people’s kids, who sneezed, who went to school for the first time, and who wiped their own ass. I’ve been wiping my own ass for nearly six years now, and I don’t feel the need to broadcast it to the world.
To give a little context, I first joined Facebook to look at photos of people I lost touch with, in order to see who got fat and who went bald. I was pleasantly surprised to see that the bald and fat consisted of EVERYONE that I went to high school with. As I later discovered, the downside of social networking is that it led me to hate a good handful of people I had once genuinely cared for.
Don’t get me wrong, Facebook has brought me back in touch with some people I wouldn’t have seen again under other circumstances. Andrea, Kelly, and Joyce are all people I thought I would never regain a relationship with, but whom I now consider extremely close. Should they ever abuse the power of “the post,” I will freeze them out of my life like genital warts. Let that be a warning, ladies (on a variety of levels).
Your kids are only in every picture because they’re attention whores who need some sort of photographic validation, and I refuse to participate. I don’t have any children that I know of, and I obviously don’t understand the fraternity of parenthood, but I would like to comment on a few Facebook posts pertaining to people’s kids that have bothered me recently.
“I couldn’t raise my boys without one special thing: Coffee. I’m so addicted. What am I going to do?”
I don’t know. How about you drink some fucking coffee!?! A lot of people are addicted to things. For me, it’s apparently not the ability to ignore posts of annoying pains-in-the-ass like you. You know who else likes coffee? JUST ABOUT EVERYONE, DIPSHIT! Why do you feel the need to put yourself on some sort of caffeine pedestal and force the world to aid in your fabricated time of need?
If your post read, “I’m so addicted to crystal meth. I don’t know what I’m going to do!” I would respect the ability to share your issue, and would go out of my way to Google the nearest rehab center (well, probably not—you should have done that yourself since you’re already spending so much time on the internet). Sorry, but being addicted to something legal that costs 14 cents a gallon doesn’t seem like the world’s biggest problem to me.
“Christie is going to Lindy’s house for a sleepover. I hope they have a good time playing together!”
Fuck Christie, fuck Lindy, and fuck you. Your kid’s playdates don’t register on the top 1,000 things that anyone other than you, Christie, and Lindy care about. Your own husband doesn’t even give a shit where his daughter is, so long as he can watch the evening news without the sound of a SpongeBob toy ringing in his ear. If your goal was to pop out a kid and ship her off to Lindy’s house, you should probably consider selling little Christie on the black market. A healthy, white child will yield quite a bit of money which you can use for a nice vacation away from the truth.
“Oh no, Gina has pneumonia!”
Nobody cares!!! When Gina inevitably gets gonorrhea, are you going to spread that information around the internet too? Pneumonia is contagious, so keep your precious little Gina as far the hell away from me as you can. Who knows what other diseases you’ve given to that snot-nosed brat.
“We put Blayne to bed at 8:00 and OMG, he asked if Mee-Maw could come to our house and read to him. Kids are so funny at this age. LOL.”
The only way I would find this amusing in any fashion is if Blayne was older than 26 and needed his 84-year-old “Mee-Maw” to read him a story in order for the moron to crash. Blayne is 4, apparently doesn’t care for your rendition of Goodnight Moon, and is finally asking for a stand-in. You should be offended by the request instead of letting the world know that you can’t successfully pull off a simple book-reading session by yourself.
“We have pics of Halloween. Jessica and Jason made their way into every shot!”
Your kids are only in every picture because they’re attention whores who need some sort of photographic validation, and I refuse to participate. I’m not looking at your fucking Halloween photos unless you’re dressed in something slutty, and have found a way to get your hands on a time machine to take you back to 1993 when you were relevant and hot.
“The kids are going to be so upset that they have to go to school today. I can’t believe that it’s Monday!!!”
Oh, it’s Monday? You haven’t held a job since you spread your legs and got successfully sperminated 9 years ago in the back parking lot of that dirty Taco Bell on Route 10. Monday, Sunday, Thursday…what’s the difference? Every day of your life includes the same boring pile of nothingness. You wake up, do a few shots of tequila, make the kids their breakfast, and fall back to sleep for three hours.
You can’t believe it’s Monday? I can’t believe you have a functional liver.
“I went to Lynn’s house today. Lara is too cute for words.”
You know what I care about less than your kids? Kids of people I don’t know, and even that’s a horse race too close to call. This one is too easy. I’m moving on.
“The weather is so perfect today. Maybe we will all go to the park for some outdoors time.”
When I have “outdoors time” it usually involves some camouflage, a rifle, and a series of dead animals at my feet by the end of the day. I’m guessing yours is quite a bit different. Unless you’re willing to display some photos of your kids hovering over a caribou carcass, I don’t give a damn that you’re going outside. It isn’t like you jumped in an airplane and went somewhere exciting. You threw some jackets on your tiny fartknockers and walked out of your house. I suppose this intense effort requires you to tell all of your friends that you were capable of getting off your fat ass to do something productive for a change.
“Tracy asked me to write a note to her teacher saying she wants nap time to be longer. LOL”
You are in bed a solid 17 hours a day, so Tracy is probably gauging her sleep patterns on what she witnesses during your afternoon “wine tastings.” Maybe you should slip a few Prozacs in her lunch to get her ready for the clusterfuck lifestyle she’ll need to cope with for the remainder of her short existence on this planet. If you occasionally made an effort with your husband to regain even the slightest shallow, pathetic relationship you once had, you could spend more time on your feet taking care of the ones you love instead of posting on Facebook and falling into wine-induced comas.
“Amelia is still sick today…she is going to have to miss her costume parade at school as well as her Halloween party…please continue to pray for her!”
No. There is only one thing I pray for, and trust me…you don’t want to know what it is.
I suppose I should probably come to grips with the fact that this Facebook thing is never going to work out for me.
Wow. I did not expect the outburst of hatred that spewed from a handful of people who made the odd decision to “friend” me on Facebook some time ago. You reached out to me. You wanted me to join in the Facebook union of people missing social skills, and I accepted the requests with arms wide open, assuming that you all knew what you were getting into. Despite your initial yearning to have an asshole like me on your friend list, some of you have decided to now ostracize me from the group.
Recently, I wrote an article describing my disdain (I suppose that the more appropriate word is hatred) toward inconsequential and frivolous Facebook posts regarding children. Surprisingly, I have caught a rash of shit from my “friends” accusing me of being callous, rude, and jealous of their inability to keep it in their pants.
I’m surprised your kid was born with hands at all. Your “little man” should have lobster claws and a forehead the shape of New Jersey.My true friends know who I am, and what I’m capable of, so let’s get something straight. I differ from a lot of you in the fact that I have spent the past 20 years making a concerted effort to keep my legs together, wear multiple condoms in sketchy situations, and have sex with women who didn’t know my real name or phone number. I have successfully maintained a highly premeditated process to ensure that children were not going to insert themselves into my playboy lifestyle. Thanks to Facebook, I am now relegated to hearing about every movement and desire of a bunch of brats that I don’t know or like.
I still have some people I would like to alienate, so in an attempt to lose 3 or 4 more friends, I will make my point again by commenting on some recent posts I’ve seen.
“Playdate for Esteban today, and a much more fun playdate for mommy and daddy tonight :)”
Oh god, I just realized this could lead to MORE status updates…Your sex life with your husband has you resorting to posting this hideous rodeo on Facebook? I can guess that Esteban and his friend will probably play video games all afternoon, but I can’t wait to see what kind of “playdate” mommy and daddy have after hours. Please, please, please videotape that predictably unimaginative session of you two hippos banging. Since we all have to hear about it on Facebook, I think we reserve the right to witness this semi-naked disgustingness that happens about as often as Halley’s Comet. The only person who cares that your husband is going to get an awkward handjob from a hotdog-fingered shithead is him, and even he isn’t that excited about it.
“All work and no play make my Jackson a dull boy”
Correction: Genetics has made that jerk-off son of yours dull. Asshole.
“My little man found a lady bug, picked it up, and flushed it down the toilet all by himself! LOL”
The ability to do that was facilitated by a little thing I like to call “opposable thumbs,” which I am amazed that he even possesses considering the 18 different medications you took while he was in the womb. Shit, I’m surprised he was born with hands at all. Your “little man” should have lobster claws and a forehead the shape of New Jersey. Just be thankful your freaky Rocky Dennis kid can flush a toilet without resorting to using his mouth.
“The stomach bug has finally hit the Billiter household :/”
There is a mathematical theorem you should use in this situation. Take the number of people in your home divided by the number of bathrooms that you have. If the outcome is greater than 1, someone is likely going to have to shit in the backyard at some point. I would suggest that it not be you, since those dumps would leave game wardens worried about the return of the baby elephant.
“Big day ahead. Santa will be coming to the Boy Scout X-mas party tonight. Alex can’t wait to tell him what he wants!!!”
I can already tell you what’s on Alex’s wish list. Alex wants a mother who focuses more on his needs than letting the world know that he’s going to visit some half-assed, gin-soaked mall Santa. Actually, half-assed and gin-soaked would be a best case scenario for your shindig considering the fact that you’re sending your child to an organized NAMBLA meeting every week. You better hope Pedophile Claus doesn’t have his dick sticking out of the bottom of a popcorn bucket, directing your precious Alex to “dig around in there until you find something fun to play with.”
“Shannon started putting tags on the baby food jars. Yay.”
Talk about an attention whore. Next thing you know, your little girl’s going to be earning money posting pics online. What the fuck does that even mean? Your kid came up with the idea of putting tags on baby food jars? Sorry, but I’m confused. What kind of flea market baby food are you buying where there aren’t labels already attached? Getting baby food at the dollar store may not be the best idea you’ve ever had.
There is another question here as well: why is a child who is capable of conceptualizing and designing any sort of tags still eating baby food? I hope to God this kid isn’t also still suckling. If the kid can write out a tag, I assume she can talk. Once your daughter can verbalize the fact that she wants to suck on your wife’s tit, you might as well pack it in because you aren’t ever going to get a piece of her ass again.
Good luck with that dude.
“The latest addition to our family has finally arrived. Gabrielle Brooke Caruso came to us this morning at a healthy 10 pounds, 4 ounces. We are so blessed”
I just took a look at the photographic proof of your newfound birth control failure. What the fuck is going on here?!! Why are her eyes on the side of her head? This kid’s peripheral vision is going to be amazing. I know you aren’t supposed to call children ugly, but your Gabby looks like a flounder, and will probably mature into an enormous one at that. Jesus Christ, 10 pounds, 4 ounces? You won’t think you’re so blessed in 16 years when you find your unsightly kid crying in a dark room on prom night because all the boys have spent the school year referring to her as “Double Filet-O-Fish.”
What’s that you smell? Powdered sodium hexametaphosphate, the fragrance of retards!”Stop kicking, stop pushing, stop screaming, stop teasing, stop crying… AGGGHHHHHH!!!!!! Calgon, take me away!!!!!!”
Do they even still make Calgon? I thought that shit was discontinued after a scathing 60 Minutes exposé showing that it caused mental retardation in children. Oh, sorry. Your retards are probably the reason why you have this Lord of the Flies situation going on at your house. Maybe you should get the fuck off of Facebook and be the parent that nobody rightfully thought you could ever become.
Hopefully, this article won’t stir up too much more of a shitstorm with my friends, but fuck it. I’ll deal with them later. Good luck with your brats, and leave me out of it.
Adam Hornyak also has the website frontrowmonthly.com as well.
Check him out—he’s hilarious!