We Need To Talk About The Internet

I saw a baby fucking a baby

Fine, I won’t lie. I didn’t see a baby fucking a baby.

But last night, I was up until two watching back-to-back re-runs of the seventies all-female cop duo Cooter and Snatch. One good thing about the internet is that we can watch all our favourite shows from back in the day, remastered.

Also, it’s good for recipes. My friend Terry, who is famous for breathing like Darth Vader cos he has a deviated septum, loves cocktails, so I made him a ‘Hard Willy’ for his birthday. It’s hazelnut rum, sour cherry liquor and ginger beer with coconut foam and a Cialis crumb. I found it on YouTube.

I even got a thank you note from Terry's wife.

But the internet isn’t all love and positivity. And honestly, it’s getting fucking weirder than the time I ate late-night stonefruit and dreamed about Morgan Freeman in a bikini.

Ya know ya wake up in the mornin’ next to ya wife who is snoring and drooling like a fuckin antelope, and the first thing ya do is pick up ya phone and start swiping down Instagram Reels or Youtube Shorts or TikTok if yer a total twat. And the phone gives ya these ten-second snippets of some fucker who beats up cats so they can rehabilitate them to get views or a medical doctor who looks like Macaulay Culkin tellin ya how eating six pounds of grass-fed butter a week will make ya cock bigger or, (Insert you personal algorithmic phenomena here).

Next thing ya know, ya shittin ya pants when yer down the supermarket cos there's people around, ya fuckin fanny. And ya fucking complaining that life is so damn busy these days that there's no opportunity to lick the grass or sniff the sky or whatever. N then yer get so fuckin depressed so yer go to the doctor n he tells ya that ya got ADRD or one of those fuckin acronyms which has something to do with being attention deficient and ya go AH and point to the sky cos ya think you've always had it n it explains why you've been such a fucking loser yer whole life, but the truth is yer were just a fuckin loser n now yer a loser with an attention deficit cos you’ve been waking up every damn day and doing your anti-meditation.

Cos ya know meditation in its basic form is training yer mind to stay on an object for longer.

It expands your attention. And now ya sit there with this device that shortens yer attention. You are literally giving yourself a fucking attention deficiency. It's not a syndrome, you absolute cunt.

N ya bitch cos ya wish it were the fifties when everyone had so much damn time in their day cos they weren't busy as fuck like we are these days, but ya don't realise that there's no extra fucking activity in our times. The people in the fifties were as busy as we are today. Check yer fucking screen time, would ya? What is this busyness in our society? It's fucking phone time, you absolute dick ninja.

N yer breakin' out in sweats of anxiety cos ya can’t bare to watch the possibility of some nutjob chucking a nuclear dildo across the sky. N yeah, that was something back in the day. Besides a shitty newspaper, yer had no idea what Phyllis, the horny pensioner across the road, was up to (without binoculars), never mind someone in another country.

These fine days, ya think ya have some weird responsibility to be informed about the economic policy of fucking Lapland. Truth is, it's none of your fucking business what's happening in the next town, never mind the next country.

N don’t think those Brylcreem-adorned George McFly greasefuckers spying on their big-titted MILF neighbours with the latest G10 Binoculars that they bought from the back of Readers Digest had any greater opportunity for happiness than you do today. You have everything on a silver fucking platter like Prince Fucking Leopold, ya spoilt cunt, but ya just can't appreciate it cos ya giving yourself a fuckin mental illness by using that device all damn day.

N, that bastard thing is making yer more extreme too. Yer start by saying to someone ya don't think men should be able to compete in women's sports, n the algorithm takes that and starts feeding ya a bit more cock. N ya nibble a bit more. Before ya know it, ya two-gender stance has become an anti-trans stance. Next thing, ya homeophobic n before ya know it, this fucking algorithm is convincing ya that racism is also something fuckin acceptable. Next thing, ya shavin’ ya fuckin head like Russell Crowe and getting a swastika tattooed on yer perineum n suggesting Mein Kampf in ya book club for young mothers.

Cos, that’s what it does. It takes your beliefs and makes you more extreme about them. It drags you deeper down yer own rabbit holes. Think about it, ya fuck.

So look, I’ve been tryin' to stay off social media, but when yer an aspiring writer with an oiled up chest, there's a certain amount ya gotta do.

Which is why I composed this famous prayer for us writers some time ago:

Lord, grant me the serenity to keep whipping my dick against the belt sander of social media until I sell enough books to get a new house and new teef and one of those hot shaves where they wank you off at the same time.

But even that isn’t enough anymore. I find myself needing to take long cold breaks from the computer cos I feel myself getting sucked down the holes.

All I’m saying is AI is here now, N its dick is getting bigger.

N even Musk said the most significant danger from AI isn't a Terminator scenario; it's the ability to condition people’s minds. So I’m wondering if I should just lay down the computer n take up fuckin Croquet or Goat Chess or Cooking or Bondage instead? Is it possible to be a writer without being an internet cunt? I fucking doubt it.

So maybe I’ll just head out to the Aussie bush and chop wood and drink eucalyptus juice for breakfast.

Cos soon yer all gonna have ya heads in fuckin helmets n I ain't gonna do that.

I’d rather fuck Morgan Freeman in a bikini.

---