The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker: Two Twitters

I spotted a piece in the Press about a USA journalist having trouble with Twitter. I did try it myself, but it's an addiction that just wastes your time. Ping Pong Name Calling.

So here are 2 pieces of Twitter I wrote some time ago.

Remember Trump is Twitter mad, instead of running the country,
it is his "own private addiction"

Twitter Followers ©
By
Michael Casey

I’m trying Twitter out, in another vain attempt to track down a few readers, or a publisher or radio station that’ll do the hard work for me. I did try FB and LinkedIn only I just got tracked down by mad people, I know what you are thinking already so I’ll just say “shut your face” as Frankie Howerd used to say.
My michaelgcasey has also been abused by millions of variants, on FB I tried restarting my account and the first thing I was asked was how many of these names did I know and study with in, Hydrobad or was it Islamabad or and other bad, all I know was that it was BAD. So I gave up and forgot about FB. There is a Michael Casey in Birmingham but he is a not me, I’ll say no more just in case his account is hijacked. There is another in NY, he is a journalist for the New York Times.

So Social Media has its pitfalls, and I have fallen into all of them. I even tried the French version of FB/LinkedIn and yes you’ve guested it I was pursued by mad people. The usual I am dying and am a good Christian/Jew/Muslim with 14,000,000 in gold bars from a sunken ship that they want me to help to offload on the bullion market. I’d get 50% for my help.

The usual BS in other words. If people want to send me an automatic Cartier Diamond Blue large version then feel free to send it to the Lord Mayor of Birmingham England telling him to ask the police to find me, and if he cannot after 3 months he could raffle it for the dogs home.

Now I’ll get loads of emails about this, I would like a big house in Harborne too, so they can talk to the Lord Mayor about that too. He can find anybody, the police do know me after all. He’ll probably be banging on my front door tomorrow, dressed in all his regalia, all because of social media.
Before I forget, hello to readers in:- USA, Russia, Poland, Ireland, Germany, Norman no I mean Norway, Portugal and Spain, I may have missed out a country or two. I’m sure the British astronaut is following me too. I am a needle in a haystack after all.

So now I’m on Twitter, I don’t know how it really works, but strange things happen, and a few have happened today. Perhaps I should tweet Jerry Hall as she makes Rupert Murdoch laugh, hey Jerry get him to look at my comedy writing. Then perhaps I’ll earn that watch and house before I die. Though if I die my kids will get a dog, they got a cat when it was “only” heart problems. Or the Lord Mayor of Birmingham gets it all instead.

Twitter Me I Want to Be Famous ©
By
Michael Casey

I just had a scan of the newspapers and what you notice most of all are people selling their Soul in an attempt to be famous. Why do people want to be 3^rd rate Z List celebrities, Andy Warhol must be cursing his luck in Heaven as everybody crowds the place out, how can he do Cloud Art with the Angels if the place is overcrowded with the newly dead 3^rd rate Z listers. If you remember your Bettlejuice Heaven’s waiting room is overcrowded with people like that.

So why do people want this drug so much? Am I one of them? In my case I only want my words to be famous, I have no desire to sell my soul. Look at my chest I don’t wear a vest, look at my legs they go right up to my bum. Look at my bum I’ve been injected with a barrel full of oil to make my bum so large it almost explodes, just make sure you are not standing directly behind me.

Look at the notches on my bedpost I’ve slept with 1000 men or was it women I cannot tell the difference, because I am straight/gay/bio whatever, or was it a robot in the bed, enough said. Westworld. And on it goes, does anybody care or is it just so very very boring. The sexual revolution was back in the 1960s, so now 50 years on to hear it all over again as if this generation were the 1^st to discover what was underneath the undergarments, is so very very BORING.

Celebrities are famous for being famous, everybody is a HERO now, I put 5000 paperclips up my nose and I am in the Guinness book of records. My brother put 7000 up his, up his, I can say but I won’t say, anyway he is in the adult version of the Guinness book of records. It’s called the Guinness with Whisky chaser book of records, with cross eyes.

People do stupid things to chase fame, then they put it on Twitter or Facebook. Thousands of likes and repeats or whatever it is called follow this, until you have 1,000,000 likes for a man who can fart fire and light a candle on a birthday cake 10 feet away. And of course in real life he is a fireman, so that makes it more interesting and his mates hose him down every time, so they can share his fame.
Hashtag #fartingfiremanlightsbirthdaycake is an explosive hashtag, and spreads like wildfire. Then the next week obviously he dies while at work saving a life of a child. So his Twitter goes wild and his Facebook has a flaming bum with smoke spelling the work RIP rising from his behind. Yes this really is the level we have reached. People just want to be famous, now more than ever. Jade Goody would no doubt agree with me, may she rest in peace.

So why the need to be famous or all over Twitter and Facebook. Is it a weakness in the human spirit, Trivia being more important that Real Life. If people live in that Bubble where Kylie being cheated on by her toyboy is more important than the Manchester United results you have to wonder what is going on in the world.
Now I just threw in the line about Man U to see what reaction I’d get from you the reader, in India or Russia or USA or even here in UK, you lot are a scattered group, my readers. Maybe you should have a Tee shirt with michaelgcasey is the FAT Birmingham writer. Then you know what would happen, some little Indian guy in Calcutta would make a fortune in Tee shirts.

He could have a 2^nd Tee with MichaelGCasey Calcutta is the Last Word, and when people asked him what it meant he’d say it’s the last word in The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker, whatever that is.

Me I wouldn’t get a dime from it. He would storm Twitter and Facebook, he would be the face of Michael Casey the Fat Birmingham Writer, even though he’d be a little Indian and I’m the large fat silver haired guy who looks like Santa after a visit to rehab to remove all the HO HO HOs from my wherever they are.
Such is fame, the irony is my best friend is a little Indian guy from Calcutta, who has a PhD in Biochemistry, with his help I no longer fart fire. And on that note I’ll have a toilet break.