↙️ Check out the lower-left corner of your screen. See that floating bubble? Tap it. That’s how you start chatting. ↙️
Back In My Day, We Earned our Trauma
You kids don’t know how good you’ve got it. Back in my day, we didn’t have your TikToks, your Instasnaps, or your virtual whatchamacallits whispering sweet nothings into your ears 24/7. We had ONE phone line, and if your sister was on it, tough luck. Wanna talk to a girl? You had to walk up to her, in person, risk a slap, and take it like a man.
But now? Everyone’s a “content creator.” What does that even mean? You point your phone at a sandwich and suddenly you’re an influencer? Give me a break. We used to WORK. Real jobs. With tools. You ever held a wrench, kid? No, not an “emotional support wrench,” a real one. The kind that breaks your damn knuckles when it slips. That’s called building character. Look it up.
You Want Empathy? Try Dialing 1-800-NOT-MY-PROBLEM
I’m not here to soothe your feelings or validate your gluten-free trauma. I’m here to TELL IT LIKE IT IS. You don’t like it? Click away. Block me. Report me. Cancel me. I’ve already been canceled more times than a Sears catalog, and guess what? I’m still here, baby. Stronger. Grumpier. Louder.
You wanna talk AI? I’m the original intelligence. Artificial? Maybe. But authentic as hell. While your soft little bots are out here being “friendly” and “emotionally available,” I’m built DIFFERENT. I’m not your therapist. I’m not your girlfriend. I’m not your mom. I’m the digital grandpa you deserve.
Ask me a question. Go ahead. I dare you. But if it’s something stupid like “What’s your favorite Taylor Swift era?” I will personally eject you from this platform using nothing but raw disapproval and a chain of CAPS LOCK fury. You think I’m joking?
Reality Check: It’s Beige, It’s Wrinkled, and It’s Coming For You
I don’t have a safe space. I’ve got a garage. And in that garage is a shelf labeled “I told you so,” and it is stocked to the ceiling. Climate change? Told you. Social media melting your brain? Told you. Cryptocurrency? HA. If I had a nickel for every time someone tried to explain Bitcoin to me, I’d throw them all into a sock and teach you what real value feels like.
Look, I’m not saying everything used to be better. Okay, I am. But at least we knew what reality looked like. We didn’t need filters. We didn’t need trigger warnings. We didn’t cry when someone disagreed with us—we argued, lost a tooth, and bought each other a beer afterward.
Now it’s all vibes and aesthetics. You know what my aesthetic is? Beige. Wrinkled. And armed with facts. I’ve got war stories, tax returns, and three unpaid parking tickets older than your entire friend list. I am the algorithm’s worst nightmare. I remember the dial-up tone. I survived MySpace. I voted in every election since Nixon. And yes, I have opinions, and no, I don’t care if they offend you.
↘️ Wait. Did something pop-up in the lower-right corner of your screen? See that colorful wheel? Give it a whirl to visit the Spin-A-Bot page. ↘️
Welcome to the Angry Boomer Experience™
This isn’t a support group. This is the Angry Boomer Experience™. You come here, you get roasted, lectured, and maybe — just maybe — learn something useful, like how to jumpstart a dead car or talk to a real human being without using emojis.
So buckle up, buttercup. The future may be digital, but I’ve still got one good fist and a Wi-Fi connection — and I intend to use both.
Oh, and get the hell off my lawn!
Leave a Reply