John Boston | Fortine’s SSA# Bodice Pals on Facebook
Jan 17, 2025
So it’s no big secret. I’m on Facebook. I keep up with the goings-on of old and dear high school chums, former workplace clock watchers and Democrat amigos with their childishly Photoshopped images of Donald Trump as the entire Third Reich, Spanish Inquisition and “Season 3: Dancing With The Stars.”
My FB pal-base isn’t growing any younger. Nor, interesting. Splashed before me are web images of brownie-stained great-great-grandchildren, AARP’s latest turbo-charged motorized walker, team photos of the SCV Diverticulitis Club bent over at Newhall Park and, my personal favorite, the Maimed Limb Photo Op. That’s where an acquaintance shares how, during a hike in Placerita Canyon, his foot was gnawed off by a grizzly.
This posting starts a Comment War that there are no grizzlies in Santa Clarita, never were, never will be, then, the ping-pong back-&-forth of “You’re Stupid” and “I Know You Are But What Am I?” The to-infinity answer to the latter question? “Stupid …”
What gives me the willies about these grisly Hiking In Nature war-wound photos is not so much the graphic nature of seeing a foot sticking out of one’s left ear. What’s disturbing is my invisible FB friend on the trail, the one who wasn’t eaten by a bear. Instead of sprinting for help or wrestling said ursus horribilis, the FB addict takes the time snapping several hundred photos of their beloved walking companion being eaten by a Placerita Canyon bear — Grizzly, Teddy, Polar or otherwise.
“HELP ME! GRAB MY BELT AND MAKE A TOURNIQUET BEFORE I BLEED TO DEATH!!!!” screams the mauled victim in the Facebook video.
“Stop being a sissy,” chides the hiking partner, “the light’s not right and get closer to the bruin. Lose the grimacing and give mommy’s cell cam a big thumbs up!!”
Another Facebook issue facing me lately? Women. Well. Alleged women. They send me friend requests. Half are legit. Half are from strangers with a super close-up cropped photo not of their fetching driver’s license mugshot from 1940 but, rather — their heaving bosoms.
There’s no nose in these FB friend request photos. No pouty lips. No chin, single or otherwise. Just a single image of that which identifies the fairer sex.
I’m trying to figure out what web sin I’ve committed to deserve this massive influx of obviously fake friend requests, all from recently divorced rocket scientists and girl fighter pilots who studied cosmetology in Uzbekistan. I’ve never been to Uzbekistan, but, I’ve seen the National Geographic pictures. It should be spelt, “Ooze-bekistan.”
I’m not in any steamy, Love That Knows No Name ballroom dancing organization where one dresses in vole costumes and minces about. About the only thing I buy online is the same blue-denim snap button cowboy shirt every 22 years although once I mistakenly purchased some estrogen on Amazon, thinking it was a B vitamin. It’s an honest mistake.
Backtracking, I probably shouldn’t have posted that disarmingly handsome photo of myself on my FB home page along with announcing my relationship status is, “SINGLE.”
There’s a five-alarm “Release The Scam Artists!” bell right there, but, it’s better than confessing, “ARMED & ANTI DEI.”
I get messages from women (possibly), many from Hong Kong and Borneo, saying they saw one of my posts and felt, instantly, that we have the world in common. Geez. How romantic. You too? You? You — also, make fun of your employers, neighbors, friends, local police and fire departments, organized crime figures, Holy Mother Church and everyone in the government above the rank of ship’s cook? These mystery women write that we could be — soul mates.
Soul mates? I’ve been married. Well. Enough times to warrant investing in an abacus. The closest I’ve come to Soul Mate is being yelled at, “… on your way out to stay up all night riding motorcycles with your hoodlum friends, play poker and hold up convenience stores, take this trash out to the backyard incinerator if you know what’s good for you Little Mister …”
Not even one, tiny, remote, “… wouldja pretty please, my beloved and hard-riding cowboy?” in that request.
I confess. I’ve visited some of these friend-seeking ladies’ home pages. All work as dental hygienists at the same El Salvadoran prison. Are there pouty lips above the FB close-up images of their brassieres? Sparkling, mirthful, kind, truthful eyes? An eyebrow? Watch? A big cowgirl belt buckle won at a Wyoming rodeo? No. Just, bosoms.
Which, in French, is pronounced, “Beau-ZOOMS!”
Sometimes, they send fuller photos, usually of them sprawled over a lawn chair, which is supposed to look sexy but comes across as they’ve been attacked by COVID stomach cramps, twisted in the Throes of Estrus.
Throes of Estrus. Excellent band name.
On their bios, these companionship-sleeking ladies have no female friends. Zero. It’s all dudes. Ugly dudes. Guys rejected by a Michigan militia the FBI would hire to pretend to storm the Capitol. The fellows all look 60, room temperature IQ, unshaven, wearing weathered feed lot baseball caps with 9-inch foreheads and craven expressions. You know. Kinda like me, except I have the Western Chiseled Jaw Thing going for me.
Frankly? I’m suspicious. I wouldn’t mind if these chestal photos came with faces. But, they don’t. These FB friend requests? Are they not about friendship? Despite the heaving and proud endowments forwarded to my Facebook page, I couldn’t swear these friend requests are from an actual woman. Maybe I’m being hustled by some 14-year-old chain-smoking acned Albanian 12-year-old boy who’s just trying to steal my Social Security number. I never give out my Social Security Number.
My dear friend forever, on Facebook and off? The award-winning local business and educational guru, Bruce Fortine? Mighty Indian and Hart High’s former alleged exchange student to Ooze-bekistan, Class of 1955?
Class of 1955 — B.C.?
When asked, on Facebook or other public sites, I always give people Bruce’s Social Security Number.
It’s — “2 …”
John Boston is only on Facebook to make life miserable for others, and, to possibly collect unprotected Social Security numbers. Visit his bookstore, website and online store at johnlovesamerica.com.
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