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A Daily Observer in Bad Poetry

Humor in Daily Life, Politics and Sports

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social media

Where’s Boris

We’re live tonight and riding with Sgt. Al (Big Al) Jackson an officer assigned to Russian Patrol
The agency formed after collusion talks indicated Russian infiltrators needed to kept under control.
The patrol’s job is to seek out Soviet non-citizens, arrest and book them and have them deported
I’m riding with Sgt. Jackson following leads that residents have reported
Big AL explained he came from a military family and had grown tired of seeing America going down the tubes
Besides chasing bad guys beats working in a office and spending the day peering over cubes
The radio suddenly came to life advising a suspicious person at the Circle K sandwich bar
The suspect was upset that that none of the advertised condiments were Beluga caviar.
Gone before we got there we were tipped that suspicious person might be at Charge Bucks Coffee shop
A customer observed a person sending bulk e-mails of voting misinformation from his laptop
The individual was also agitated the Barista couldn’t create a Lenin likeness in his cappuccino.
Quietly we rolled into the parking lot and stopped behind a vintage El Camino
Approaching the suspect we identified ourselves as a government agency
Laughing, he replied that our numbers were too small to topple this insurgency
Still amused even in handcuffs he advised to take a look at the Mueller investigation
Two years and money wasted and nothing even close to a presidential incrimination
“We work with our network of hackers creating likable bots that America accepts as friends through their gullibility
State something outlandish enough times and fiction becomes fact. A guaranteed inevitability”
So the day progressed, the next stop was a big box store where three hookers were nabbed in the health and beauty aids.
All were demanding diplomatic immunity in an eastern bloc accent while dressed plaid skirts and fake blond braids
The afternoon was spent interviewing green card violators trying to find a Russian connection from a potential deportee
Four hours later we were holding just one suspect who gave his name as Jesus del a Slobinski.
Later over beers, Big Al lamented. “You see it’s no longer a spy vs spy or Tom Cruise hanging on strings.”
“We spend our time waiting by the phone or seeing what new social media rumor tomorrow brings. “
“Yesterday’s detective work was easy. Tips were called in or you knocked on doors
Now we’re forced to follow up on rumors spread by a hacker six thousand miles away spreading lies like mushroom spores.”
The Russians are a dodge. The media is fueling the frenzy by writing their own unsubstantiated fabrications
The writer can read the hackers’ observations and instantly what was fiction is now face book proclamations.
Which is why we’re picking up eastern bloc amateur hookers and a caravan lightweight.
While the real criminal is on the other side of the world spreading gossip for shallow minds to infiltrate”

Social Media’s Crushing My Soul

Leaving the Doc’s sterile office, the exam paper left streaks on my rear
My lethargy and depression seemed symptomatic and I hoped not severe
My daily routine seemed aimless, what were goals were now dismissed
I was sleepwalking through life, working and eating but only to exist
Friendships seemed hollow, pleasure was fleeting as the world seemed a brownish gray
Hopefully the doctor could read something in my blood sample and right my dismay
I couldn’t check my personal page, look at my Twitter account or Instagram
As everyone’s got it better, has more followers, and about me not give a damn
In the past six months I’ve been friended by only four people that I don’t know
I liked something I saw so the friend request arrived to keep all status quo
The buzzing in my mind has grown louder reminding me of my inadequacy
And now I fear the persistent noise can’t be diagnosed clinically
The alcohol, the drugs, prescribed and not opened doors to nowhere
My tiny unremarkable life has become an unrelenting nightmare
No one notices, no one cares. The nurse only wanted my copay
So the doc can tell me nothing is wrong and to put my phone away.
But I can’t put it down, my cell has become me, I’m it’s identity
It’s my voice to all the other voices shouting at the globe’s inhumanity
It’s my umbilical cord to others meager triumphs and a channel to their hatred
The short video clips and bits of text all seem extreme, common sense negated
My thoughts begin to tumble, foreign voices and color explosions swirled
This device has become my addiction, an obsession in my private netherworld
Irrational thoughts of fame and glory have become a daily norm
My indifference coupled with lost souls’ recorded conflicts becomes a perfect storm
I’m feeling the need to end it all and find peace from the innate turmoil
Not to be understood,  my resolution makes sense to me and my mentor the phone, stays loyal

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