Boy Child thinks that Daisy should have a Twitter account. I have a Twitter account, but I don’t really know what to do with it. The character limit ticks me off. Baby Boomer that I am, I ain’t gonna let The Man tell me how much I can say. So, there sits my Twitter account, with only occasional tweets, like the gasping chirps of a smoke detector with a dying battery.
I have asked for help with my Twitter account from Girl Child, the Queen of All Things Social Media. She sighs, rolls her eyes and stomps upstairs to her room. I agree. Mom having Twitter with the possibility of following her friends WOULD be mortifying.
At least I’m hip enough to not call it, The Twitter. I think it’s probably a demographic thing AND a generational thing, to add “the” in front of things that are unknown, scary, or downright distasteful. I remember words whispered in my grandparents’ house, “She has The Cancer.” As decades of chemical factories oozing into the atmosphere and groundwater of those hills made cancer more prevalent and therefore more accepted, other words became demarcated with “the.”
“She got The Religion right before she went to Florida and married that man.” Obviously religion isn’t a bad thing, but if it preceded a sudden change of location or marital status, then it certainly was suspect.
As is Twitter. Although I refrain from calling it The Twitter, I still suspect the idea of Daisy having a Twitter account. I have been raising youth in the age of cyberbullying and cyberstalking. I know the dangers. What if Daisy gets unwanted attention from a catphisher? Or worse, is bullied?
I asked Boy Child, what would Daisy’s Tweets say? “Oh,” he answered. “Stuff like, ‘Just (expletive) fix me already’ or ‘It’s cold as (expletive) out here. Get me some socks for my tires.’”
I didn’t realize Daisy’s frustration levels were that high. I thought she was just chillin’ until the weather straightened up and we could get back to work on her. Perhaps we should work on her anger management instead of her Twitter?
I suppose we could also get her a Vine account as well as Instagram. We could shoot photos of her pouring champagne into her big old booty and break the Internet. With the rot she has under her nifty fifties flooring, that champagne would go right through her like last night’s bad Mexican.
If questionably-hued dresses and runaway llamas can become Internet sensations, then why not a broken down camper? The potential is staggering. Newscasters would quiz one another. “Do you see blue and beige? Or beige and blue?”
Political pundits would argue on Face the Nation. “Is this camper leaning to the left? Or the right? Exactly what kind of political statement is Daisy making?”
Style mavens would argue on E! “Daisy’s understated dirty beige and eighties blue coloring juxtaposed with her layers of vinyl flooring echo the style of early Norma Kamali.”
“I disagree. Daisy’s glamorous style screams that of Versace at his best.”
There would be books and movie rights. World tours. Red carpet walks. “Who are you wearing, Daisy?” We wouldn’t have to worry about getting Daisy road worthy because she would have a driver. I’m sure there are flat bed limos somewhere. “Daisy, your cah is heah.”
More importantly, Daisy’s influence would change the Twitter icon from an obnoxiously boring blue bird to that of a pink flamingo. That would end mean and ugly tweets for all time. Who doesn’t grin and think happy thoughts when they see a pink flamingo?
Okay Boy Child, let’s get Daisy an account on The Twitter. But before she tweets anything, she needs to chill the (expletive) out.