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Ages coming and going

Bullshit ages are passing by pretty fast these days. As a result of the whole collective knowledge thing, we went really quickly from The Industrial Bullshit Age to the Nuclear Bullshit Era to the Doodad Bullshit Era. Oh sure, we kept the nuclear bullshit around. Just in case we need to whip it out for some final mad act of assholery,\.

However, with the explosion of doodads we have arrived at the Doodad Bullshit Era.

Yep, the DBE is upon us. We got doodads on our desk, tablet doodads and doodads in our pocket. They’re all connected to really big doodads in the cloud through an aptly named thing called the web. Doodads at work, doodads at play, seems like doodads more doodads every f’ing day.

Pocket Doodad: Bullshit Bag in microcosm

Consider the doodad itself. It’s like a microcosm of your bullshit bag. Whatever is in the bag, can usually be found on the doodad. Including the assholey bits and all that assorted unsightly bullshit that sensible folk just want to keep hidden in the bottom of the bag. Something about the doodad just makes people want to throw all their bullshit out there into the universe with, well, reckless f’ing abandon.

I still don’t get why they call pocket doodads phones. They get used for that less and less. Why talk when you can just tap in whatever you want into a doodad app and zip it off to whoever and how many you want.

The goal seems to be to get as many people to follow whatever bullshit you tap into your doodad app. If you can get enough people following your bullshit you win a prize.

I was thinking about tweets and texts and pintresting posts. And all the other nifty digitized packets, they call ‘em, that’s just blasting about the globe. Mostly containing bullshit. Little digital packets of bullshit. Who saw that coming?

Bullshit zipping everywhere

Bullshit zipping through wires,
pushed through all by electric fires,
bullshit zipping through the air.
bullshit zipping everywhere
Bullshit zipping through you and I,
and bullshit stored in the sky

Yep, there was a text from Bill to Marsha declaring how he can’t wait to get out of work early to slip over and bang her in the ass before going home to Jill and the kid’s.
That just went through my left nut. Ping!

We, my friends, have bullshit zipping through us 24/7/365. It’s the time of bullshit gone viral.

Let’s not forge tthe immeasurable quantity of streaming bullshit. From social media, the Hollywierds, the media outlets, and your very own elected officials. In between all that bullshit, there is the bullshit wrapped around trying to sell, sell, sell. 

We, my friends, have bullshit zipping through us 24/7/365. It’s the time of bullshit gone viral.

Ping! There’s another one through my right eyeball. Oh, Deloris just ordered 600 pounds of cat food. And that really should have been a secure connection their girl. Because these days, all our doodads have built-in bullshit encryption/decryption.

Encrypted bullshit

We have this encryption/decryption because we don’t want the wrong people to know all our bits of bullshit, but…

They already know…

I got news. They already know all the bits of bullshit. It’s called big data, and apparently, just about anybody can get there and look at it whenever the hell they want. Rant for another day.

Billions of connected doodads

As I write this on my swell doodad, made by Giant F’ing Fruit, Inc. Of course, GFF inc doesn’t have anything to do with fruit. That’s Giant F’ing Genetics, Inc. They make fruit.
GFF Inc. makes doodads.

Periodically, my doodad takes my words, crams them down into itty bitty encrypted bullshit packets and ships them off to the cloud. I look up at the sky and wonder which one.
This happens because we are connected. All our doodads connect us to everyone else’s doodads with the cloud in between.

We are letting all our technical products get in on the connectivity game too. It’s called the Internet of things. And it’s so your refrigerator can tell your alarm clock to tell you that the milk just went bad, and is holding the potato salad and the pepperoni at gunpoint. Thanks, Gary Larson.

What I’m starting to wonder, is, what else are those things saying to each other? During the rest of the time? Does the alarm clock provide the fridge with a video feed every time a body gets their solo on? Does the microwave feel left out? And what happens when you find out the fridge has been sharing with the Crandall’s vacuum cleaner? We and all our things are connected.

Connected families in the DBE

Let’s pop into McNalley’s down on the corner and meet some connected people. Take a look around. Yep there they are. The Will family. Bill, Jill, 13-year-old Chelsea and baby Janise. Who just turned four.

They are all looking at their pocket doodads including Janise. Oh sure, she texts and sends selfies to grandma all the time. Has 3000 followers on Twitter already.
No. No one ever has accused Bill or Jill of having their parenting bullshit all sorted out yet.

And look around some more. There’s the Brown family. All looking at their pocket doodads and tap-tap-a-tapping. Except for four-year-old Tommy. They only let him have an old-style flip doodad. Sensible parenting and all. He’s just kind of sitting there staring at the ceiling fan and starting to drool.

Connected to everyone but each other

Now observe. Here we have two sets of people. Sitting together in groups. All connected to other people on their doodads. Bill is connected to Marsha the waitress, planning to knock out a quickie in the back room while Jill and the kids do dessert. Yes. Bill is an asshole, though he thinks he’s a great guy. 

Jill’s connected to whatever bullshit the Hollywierds are throwing out into the universe with reckless f’ing abandon.

Chelsea is …well, you just don’t want to know about Chelsea’s connections. Let,s just say Chelsea Will lives all the way up to her name and leave that right there for now.

And Janise is connected to grandma, who’s trying to tell her to turn off her f’ing doodad and go play with Tommy. Before he dies of boredom like Uncle Sparky did.

Janise, being a young very aware polymath knows this, she simply doesn’t give a rats ass if Tommy fades off into the ceiling fan, him being an asshole and all. So she sits and taps at grandma and wonders when dessert is coming and dad will be off to play hide the sausage with the waitress.

Ah, but this little saga continues in The Unsightly Family Bullshit Chronicles.

Welcome to the Doodad Bullshit Era.