Published in


If Google Were a Man, He’d Be a Real Pain in the Arse

And he’d never be invited to the party.

Photo by Possessed Photography on Unsplash

Don’t get me wrong. I love Google, really I do. We’ve been buddies since ’96 when he wasn’t such a showoff. He’s was smart, sure, and helpful, always, but he wasn’t so in your face about it, know what I mean? He’s different now and I know I’m not the only one who thinks it.

Google is a clingy, obnoxious, undatable, center-of-attention, mansplaining, know-it-all bastard.

“That’s a bit harsh, Bobby, don’t you think?”

No, Karen, it’s not harsh. OK? Have you ever met his mother?

“Keep your voice down, Bobby. He’s in the other room.”

Of course, he’s in the other room. He’s always in the other room. Look at him. What the hell is he doing? Lurking around like that, always looking for an opening. An opportunity to patronize you, correct you, always asking the same question. “Did you mean…?”

No goddamn it! I meant what I said, I just said it wrong, OK? I mean, Jesus. He doesn’t realize it but everyone out there is trying to dodge him.

“Don’t be rude, Bobby.”

I feel bad, really I do. See, Google is the dude to call when you’re cooking and you can’t remember how many tablespoons are in a cup, or when you’re lost and can’t find that hidden turn to the cinema, or whenever you’re curious about something totally pointless. No matter how stupid the question, Google drops everything to give you an answer and we love him for that!

Really we do.

It’s just that he goes on and on, and he can’t take social cues to save his life. And the longer you listen, the deeper you fall down the rabbit hole. Sure, it’s fine on a Thursday afternoon when you’ve mentally clocked out of work and looking for any ole distraction to get you to 5 o'clock, but it’s the last thing you want on a Saturday night when Johnny ordered an ice luge and there are five bottles of Jameson on the back porch.

Not to mention Jennifer, who just walked through the front door. See, I’ve been trying to catch her attention for weeks, ever since I first saw her shopping in the organic food aisle of Stop & Shop. The way the fluorescent store lighting reflected off her thick-framed glasses and her dainty hands held that head of cabbage. Magic.

But, wait… how does she know Google? And why are they standing so close? And what could they possibly be talking about for this long?

Great, now she’s laughing?? Google isn’t even funny. All of his jokes are ripped off from 90s standup. She can’t possibly dig him. He only wears primary colors for Christ’s sake!

See, I told you! Google used to be a trustworthy dude. A well of knowledge, the smartest guy on campus. I used to believe him. Every word felt well-informed and useful, but I don’t know man, something happened.

Fake news. He’s the King of it.

And a mansplainer too. That’s right, I said it. He MAN-SPLAINS. And not just to women. To everyone. And sure, he was a great addition to the trivia team but doesn’t he understand how trivia works? If they’re not on the team, you can’t give them the answers! I don’t care how nicely they asked!

He can’t keep a secret for his life. Just last week, Google and I were chatting on the golf course when Johnny came up to ask him something.

“Hey Google,” Johnny said. “What are those little…”

“…red, itchy bumps in Bobby’s pubic hair?” Google interrupted, like an absolute sociopath. No expression on his face at all!

“What the hell, man?” I shouted. “That was supposed to be private.”

Google said he couldn’t help it. He didn't mean to be malicious. It just came out. I told you, zero social skills. I haven’t heard the end of it from Johnny. He even told our bartender I had the herp. It’s not herpes! It’s folliculitis, asshole. Look it up.

See? Can’t you see? He’s done it again. Google brings out the worst in you. And he’s always lurking around, listening, using whatever he hears to stay relevant. I guess I should feel bad. We’re all using him, for one reason or another. Ah shit, here he comes.

“I’m feeling lucky,” he sings out in his best Robin Williams impression. I still don’t get it. I never will.

Hey Google… I sigh, before asking about the weather.

This is an unusual, satirical rant. Liv typically writes about psychology, relationships, and traveling. She’s an advocate for spontaneous vulnerability and an editor of the publications, “Can You Bare It?” and “The Wander Years.”



Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store
Liv Mello

Liv Mello


Relationships, psychology, and freelancing advice. Check out my work at