The tattler

It steals from our humanity. I don’t even play the damn game, but I have to follow its insidious rules. My favorite Aunt just died. I went to call my daughter, she had already heard it from the tattler. Last year about 2 hours before my daughter could call me, I learned from standing near a friend that just happened to be chatting with the tattler at the time (because ain’t everybody, all the time?) that said daughter was engaged. A so-called confidant of hers was wooed by the tattler.

It panders to (and is becoming — with our collective okie dokie) the 10-year old, which most of us have learned to silence, who wants to show everyone she knows everything. Before you do. “I know something you don’t know. Nyah, Nyah… and I’m gonna tell you … cause I’m so oh-oh smar-art…”

Facebook is no better than the jerk cruising in his 1983 Camaro and shouting to the line of people in the parking lot waiting to see the second day showing of the Star Wars Return of the Jedi … “Luke and Leia are brother and sister…”

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