I fought the Facebook — and the Facebook won. (No apologies to Sonny Curtis and the Crickets)

Now I’ve got a bunch of pendejos in Tucson, pointing at me, laughing and saying, “hey happy birthday” — you lying piece of shit.

It started about 3 years ago. My “little” Boy grew into a 6-foot-2 financial advisor.

“Don’t put your real birthday on Facebook,” he said, like I’ve become the senile father, and he needs to “‘splain things” slowly and in small words. “You don’t need that out there for every criminal to see.”

Well, goddamn that makes sense. He switched his birthday to April Fool’s Day. Three years later, I still think that’s fucking funny. So I did it too.

“Don’t steal from your only child,” the Bear said, like I’m a sad, old fool, and she needs to “‘splain things” slowly and in small words.

So I switched to May 1. It was the least I could do — it was the smallest mouse movement possible.

April 30

The Bear is clicking on her iPad while I am watching TV… “Hey get your birthday out of my month.”

Fucking May. It is her month.

She has her birthday, Mother’s Day and her wedding anniversary. (Sure, sure, I was at the wedding too, but we all know it’s her fucking anniversary — she needs presents and cash and shit to salve the pain. 30-years isn’t taking the sting out of her decision to stay and say “I do”.)

“OK, I’ll change it,” I told her.

I’m not a fan of birthdays. That’s a day you should give something to your mother for pushing your fat head through a tiny slit. Don’t give a shit if you were a little “Caesar” and came into this world through surgery. It was still a much bigger day in her life than it ever will be in yours.

So stop taking all the credit like you’re a fucking miracle for the rest of us to behold. Why don’t we celebrate when you actually accomplish something. (I’m still waiting for a day I could legtimately celebrate “Kieran” just for being “Kieran”… Shut up, so are all of the rest of you… fuckers.)

May 1

I forgot to change that shit. A few well wishes come in on the goddamn Facebook. Suddenly, I’m George Jetson… and the Facebook is my treadmill.

Worse, the pendejos chat room lights up with “happy birthday” texts from these shit heads. They appeared to be sincere. Fuck, yet another group of people I have to disappoint. Add them to my parents, siblings, spouse, child, friends, co-workers, other tennis team members and the Goddamn Savages…

Fortunately, pendejos are resilient. And even after repeatedly ramming a huge lie in them, they eventually shrink to a normal state. (Waiting for the next piece of shit to drop — am I right Geno?)

I clicked on the Facebook figuring I’ll pick June. Hey, maybe every month, I’ll move my birthday by a month. Brilliant. Then everybody will ignore this fucking day like humans actually should.

But Fuckerberg had another little surprise. You can only change your birthday twice. It keeps a list of what you “already selected.” And “those are your only choices – you lying, fat piece of shit”, the Facebook said. (Ok maybe not, but that’s what it felt like the Facebook said.)

To change from your first 3 picks, you need to fill out some form. I don’t know, I didn’t read it. Maybe I need a fucking permission slip from Mrs. Washco, the principal of King Elementary School in Akron, Ohio, from 1971…

So I picked the least mouse movement and selected April 1 — again. Next March 30, I’ll have to move it back to May 1, and then back again. You think any of that shit is going to happen? Maybe if you “‘splain things” slowly and in small words… Ahh never mind.

The Fucking Facebook wins again.