Social media is one humming cesspit at the best of times, but it seems to be de rigeur to post a picture of a recently deceased person with a message telling them to ‘fly high’, with a cringeworthy ‘with the angels’ being an optional extra. Sometimes it’s ‘fly high with the angles‘, which I guess is tickety-boo for dearly departed mathematicians, geometrists, and billiards players.
Other in-memoriam-type messages wish the person pictured ‘a happy heavenly birthday’.
Give me strength.
It’s all got the grey matter turning. Do dead people have Facebook accounts? If dispatched people are omnipresent and can hear us even if we can’t hear them, why not just lock the toilet door, say ‘Happy Birthday’ or whatever toss tickles your fancy, float an air biscuit, and treat yourself to a fundamental unburdening on all fronts. At least someone will then be giving a shit because, believe me, no other bastard does.
Just give us all a break from the grotesque and risible, shoddy, self-promoting twaddle of the ‘fly-high’ shitposting. You know someone who’s died and you’re sad? Welcome to the human race. Every day isn’t Christmas, you lame turds.
These pisspoor open declarations are not too dissimilar to the sub-chav cry for help that we all know so well: the ‘So pissed off’ timeline post.
That typically elicits the, ‘You OK, Hun?’ responses, and the hopeless attention-seeking pricks can then hook their hapless suckers in with a ‘DM me’.
No wonder so-called trolls tell them to go on and top themselves. That’s not online bullying but a reasonable and proportionate response to attention-seeking shizzle.
In the old days, useless tossers used to climb up onto building ledges and do the biz. In doing so, they freed us from their festering ‘mental’ crapola and allowed emergency services newbies to pop their professional cherry by clearing up the splat with two boards and a roll of bin liners.
Now they finesse others into accepting unquestioningly that the trials and tribulations of life are indicators of ‘mental health issues’ that bestow a right to be, wait for it, supported.
I’d rather volunteer for the two-board gig than have to subject myself to flim-flamming flaky fiction.
But back to the main gig. Once they reel in their do-gooding marks, they can start to define themselves in terms of their neediness, and therefore become someone.
Back in the day, ‘DM me, Hun’ would have prompted a German skinhead to have stomped you into the ground with his Doctor Martens. Now it’s the cri de coeur of the snowflake whimperati.
It’s nothing more than shitting in other people’s pants.