P.T. Barnum Was Right About Us All
“There’s a sucker born every minute.”
― P.T. Barnum
“Nobody ever lost a dollar by underestimating the taste of the American public.”
― P.T. Barnum
I know, I know — you’d leave Facebook, if only your beloved great-aunt Mildred, your third cousin Raymond (thrice removed), and all the “Friends” you swore you’d see in Hell before ever speaking to them again weren’t there, but you cannot abandon them and they’re just too stubborn, lazy, or apathetic to try yet-another-new-internet-thingy. We are all codependent enablers, hooked on social media platforms that will slowly erode civilization as we know it. Facebook is the Hotel California: “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.”
You can, however, find yourself in Facebook Jail.
You can be locked out of your account, with no real recourse. Don’t bother sending proof of ID to Facebook; they’ll simply ignore it, unless you’re a celebrity with an entourage of highly-paid lawyers and publicists. Besides, you have no idea where you’re really sending your ID, your utility bills, your proof of residence, do you? It could be some underpaid, overworked, psychologically abused moderator in a distant country who has finally had just about enough of Facebook users and corporate nonsense. Seriously, don’t bother.
You can find your public photos being stolen, you account being cloned, and your friends being phished by impersonators. Some part of me feels that if my friends don’t know me well enough to spot egregiously bad spelling and grammar, and interrogate imposters until they turn themselves in and beg for mercy, then good enough for ’em if they find their bank accounts wiped out, one day. But no — we are all just one cup of caffeine short of a bad decision, some days. The ones I worry most about are the ones who are 100% sure they can’t possibly be fooled — but don’t even know the term “social engineering” and still think guys in the Cayman Islands are “hitting on them.” Or that girls admiring their own airbrushed asses in a truck stop bathroom mirror are just waiting, bosoms heaving, for their call.