“Good morning, you have five hundred and seventy notifications awaiting your response,” the ever-chipper sounding social media assistant alerted me as I groaned and struggled to wake up.
“Hmm, not bad,” I mumbled back in response, “alright then, Jeeri, let’s hear one now then…”
“Certainly, here is one from KingKalamity666… “ the device replied in its upbeat tone before switching over to a pre-recorded message that was anything but cheerful, “… LISTEN, YOU PIECE OF SHIT, YOU THINK YOU’RE A BIG FUCKING DEAL? YOU’RE NOTHING BUT SHIT, YOU PIECE OF SHIT, I HOPE YOU EAT SHIT AND DIE! YOU’RE A FUCKING IDIOT, PUTTING PINEAPPLE ON PIZZA! HOW ABOUT SOME SHIT ON YOUR PIZZA, FUCKER?”
I laid there in bed and smiled in response, then laughed, as I shook my head; this idiot fell right into my trap! I turned my head and looked across the room at the pineapple pizza sitting on the counter, not one bite taken out of it except by the flies that were buzzing around it now. I grabbed my phone off the nightstand next to the bed and opened up the picture that I had posted just last night. It was a selfie of myself with the pizza in hand and a shit-eating grin on my face. Below the picture, I left a caption that read: THE BEST PIZZA! SHARE IF YOU AGREE.
I watched in real time as the post now had over six hundred responses and counting. No matter how many of these things I post, I still find enjoyment in seeing people who agree with me, those who don’t, and then being defended by those who agree with me against those who are against me. It wasn’t my best post, that one from a year ago still elicits another response or two every few minutes, but that’s to be expected when it’s something political rather than just food. Regardless, I had to do what I could to help stoke the flames a bit more. I needed those credits.
“Jeeri, please record the following in response to KingKalamity666…” I said, then waited for the beep to signal that the following would indeed be recorded, “… I’M SORRY YOU FEEL THAT WAY, YOU TASTELESS HACK. YOU UNCULTURED SWINE. YOU WOULDN’T KNOW GOOD FOOD EVEN IF SOMEONE RAMMED IT DOWN YOUR FAT GULLET. WHY DON’T YOU JUST ORDER YOURSELF A NICE SLICE OF SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU STUPID FUCKING IDIOT.”
The beep sounded once more before Jeeri chimed in by saying, “I noticed that you said ‘I’M SORRY,’ would you like me to take the liberty of correcting this perceived pleasantry of yours?”
“Sure,” I replied as I kept scrolling, looking for my next adversary, “whatever makes you happy.”
“Excellent,” Jeeri commented, “your reply has been amended, posted, and 1 credit has been applied to your account. Thank you, and don’t forget to submit your current serotonin levels.”
“One measly credit?” I complained as I looked at the rotting pizza, “I need better engagements.”