The Facebook fixation

A tourist recently advised me to set up a Facebook account. 

“You don’t exist if you’re not on Facebook,” she opined. “I added another 20 friends last month, which took me over 1000.” 

“We gorillas are not so promiscuous in the making of friends,” I replied. “If you pat too many dogs on the head, you’re liable to catch fleas.” 

I didn’t tell her that I do, in fact, have a Facebook account, which I never update and discourage people from visiting. I use it purely to engage in psychological warfare against those who lampoon the great apes. The lampooners adopt cunning disguises to avoid exposure, but that doesn’t stop me from responding to their cowardly barbs with chest-thumping vigour. They need to know that the eyes of the Hairy One are upon them. 

Some notable humans have spoken out against Facebook. One of them is Miss Drew Barrymore, the chubby-cheeked child star who blossomed into a chubby-cheeked adult one. She complained that Facebook was spoiling her love life by giving her too much information about her suitors before meeting them on first dates. 

“If a guy plays the ukulele or has an extra penis, I want to find out about it in the normal way instead of reading it on his Facebook profile,” she declared. 

She makes a good point. There are far too many posturing dandies who advertise their assets on Facebook, enticing desperate females to stalk them obsessively. When will women realise that men who disclose their personal affairs in such a forum will never offer reliable service? Far better that they should take their chances with the honest fellow who repairs their TV set and allows them to play with his tool box. 

Facebook did not exist when I was in the circus, so my fans had to write me letters in the old-fashioned way. One such missive was from a young lady called Sophie Dahl, who said she was an aspiring model and invited me to lunch. This put me in an awkward position. I didn’t want to disappoint a female admirer, but was reluctant to dine with a human stick-insect who would peck at her food and put me off my own victuals. I decided to accept her invitation, reasoning that I could always fill my belly afterwards at Luigi and Dino’s Pasta House. 

When I arrived at her residence, the door was opened by a buxom blonde of generous proportions who greeted me like a long lost friend. I felt like a farmer who enters a hen house to find a goose honking at him affectionately. Sophie had prepared a fine meal, and when we sat down to eat she put it away like a hungry mare. I naturally ate a little more than her to show proper appreciation of her cooking. After lunch, we lay down together on her mohair rug, digesting our food and discussing the future of the Congo Basin ecosystem 

Would such an afternoon of pleasant surprises be possible in today’s Facebook bazaar? I think not.

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