Yes indeed, that interminable social networking ballache we call Facebook was founded on February 4, 2004. It was the work, it transpires, of one Mark Zuckerberg, which curtails our theory that Beelzebub found it among the detritus in the depths of his underpants when preparing for his annual crotch wash and thrust it Earth-wards like the massive bastard he is.
We’re being facetious, of course, as both the utility and ludicrous popularity of the site are undeniable. It’s an invaluable resource for everyday interweb shenanigans, finding that guy you went to school with back in the sands of time (who is, incidentally, still an asshole, and who the hell saw that coming from the dude that stole your clothes in the locker room/pointed and laughed at your shriveled wang in 1997? This is a hypothetical, entirely not true example, you understand), conversing with distant friends, spreading the good word of your beloved Egotastic! and whatnot. In summation, a wonderful social tool, though it does have a penchant for using those very superpowers for evil too.
How, prithee? Craptacular ‘developers’ like Zynga are to blame. Facebook is also a front for the ghastliest clandestine asshole-ery since human trafficking: their appalling array of ‘semi-games.’ FarmVille, CityVille, Mafia Wars, Bejewelled and their feculent kin are the gaming equivalent of one of McDonald’s I shit in your arteries animal by-product death-patties: It’s reasonably agreeable for a while. You may even like the taste. For the sake of the devil’s dick, though, you’ve got to get the hell away before it attacks your heart with a heart attack.
The assorted ‘Villes, virtual pet wankery, half-assed RPGs and so forth are a procrastinator’s paradise. Should you -God forbid!- venture in, you’ll find that a nut-numbingly long journey to… nothing at all awaits. These infernal time-sinks lead to all manner of domestic disputes.
(You’re absently scratching your wang on the couch, tending to some imaginary FarmVille crops or washing your imaginary FarmVille pig’s imaginary gonads of something. Imaginary.)
Your Girlfriend/Wife/eBay Thai Bride: “I asked you to put up that shelf this morning! What have you been doing all day?”
You: “You’re looking at it.”
Who wants that? No one, that’s who.
Now, you may venture that, if someone thinks such games suck King Kong’s five-foot phallus (which they do), they can opt not to play. This, alas, would be actual goddamn logic, which we don’t take too kindly to around these parts, mister. It’s moot anyway, because eight million bastard notifications will pop exuberantly onto your screen to inform you of every mofo’s exploits in these digital catastrophes. Do we want to know if our cousin has advanced to level two of Bejewelled? If our drug-dealing stepbrother wants some wood to construct a henhouse on his farm? If our elderly mother has shot another mobster in his blood-leaking eyeball in Mafia Wars?
How many shits do we give? No shits.