Apparently there are two kinds of people in the world at the moment. People who like to Poke-a-man and those that want to slap people that like to Poke-a-man. I’m in the latter group.

Having grown up in the era when “the net” was something a family used to fish for dinner, I admit I’m not entirely switched on when it comes to uploading my contact lenses to an eye-Cloud. I really don’t want to know why people put photos on Pee-interest, I like my cookies in hurtful reality and I most certainly have no intention of poking a man.

When a kid explained the new craze to me, I lost that last little bit of hope I had for humanity, then promptly smacked him with my walking stick. His explanation went something like… he collects virtual candy and stardust so he can accumulate poke-a-mans that he can only see when he looks through his phone or when he is high on cocaine. There was no ultimate goal as such, it was just kind of a way of using up free time until he dies or loses his internet connection, which is apparently the same thing.

I can only relate it to my long dead friends who used to collect baseball and football cards. You know the cards, the glossy smiling moustache wearing sexy athletic Joe “Smack-em” Smith, complete with stats including his 546 successful tackles and 35 sexual harassment lawsuits in 1986. Retired in 1987 with a score of 12 STDs and a healthy addiction for strawberry shortcake dolls.

The thing about collecting cards was that they were physical things that could actually be on sold to other like-minded idiots for cash. The traditionalists also didn’t tend to walk around with the collectable cards in front of their eyes, oblivious to the world around them, looking like a defenceless lamb assuming a Big Bad Wolf prefers to eat vegetarian.

Don’t get me wrong, I love technology. I was really excited when I heard about the invention of the wheel. Back when I was a kid, which I think was somewhere in the 1800’s, fun was a fairly foreign concept. In fact, my downtime probably involved wholesome activities like shining shoes, emptying the outhouse bucket into the open sewer, changing the candles and fossicking for uranium. We often used to huddle around the broken valve radio when all the chores were done and listened to our neighbours argue, then have vigorous make up sex. It was probably a tough life, but I wouldn’t know, I was drunk.

So when I was riding home the other day and a bunch of Poke-a-man “smartphone” holders were pointing their devices at me as I was coming down the shared foot-way I had to point out an important aspect of my existence… “I’M NOT A FUCKING CARTOON… GET OUTTA THE WAY!” I know, I know, I should have just run them down, but the kids of today take some serious momentum to push over. Anyway, my directive seemed to snap them out of their augmented reality as they immediately turned and bumped into each other. It was kind of like watching the episode of Homer Simpson’s damaged sperm smashing aimlessly into each other.

Which brings me to the “make love, not war!” phenomenon. Don’t do either okay!?! I implore you, please refrain from procreating any more Poke-a-mans. We need real people not cybernetic kids who have no idea what it’s like to have a real collection, like my fine display of tea cosies.


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