10/16/2026 from Daily Jokes
#22776
Edna, a spry 76-year-old with a sharp wit and even sharper reading glasses, walked down the sterile, white hallway of the Clearview Addictions Clinic. She was on a mission. She passed signs for the “Heroin Addiction Department (HAD),” the
“Smoking Addiction Department (SAD),” and even the surprisingly busy “Bingo Addiction Department (BAD).”
Finally, she spotted the department she was looking for: the “Facebook Addiction Department (FAD).”
It was easily the busiest wing in the entire clinic. The waiting room was packed with about three dozen people, all sitting in eerie silence, their faces illuminated by the cold, blue glow of their Blackberries and iPhones. A middle-aged man with unkempt hair was pacing back and forth, muttering frantically, “I need to milk my cows. I need to milk my cows.”
In the corner, a twenty-something man was lying prone on the floor, his face buried in his hands, sobbing quietly. A curly-haired woman sat beside him, patting his shoulder gently.
“Don’t worry, Dave. It’ll be all right,” she whispered.
“I just don’t understand it,” Dave wailed, his voice cracking. “I thought my update was totally LOL-worthy. I used three emojis! But none of my friends even clicked the ‘like’ button.”
“How long has it been since you posted?” the woman asked softly.
“Almost five minutes,” Dave choked out. “That’s like five months in the real world!”
Edna shook her head, waited until her name was called, and followed the receptionist into the office of Alfred Zulu, the clinic’s senior Facebook Addiction Counselor.
“Please have a seat, Edna,” Alfred said with a warm, professional smile. “And tell me, how did it all start?”
“Well, it’s all my grandson’s fault,” Edna began, adjusting her cardigan. “He sent me an invitation to join Facebook. I had never heard of it before, but I thought it was something specifically designed for me, because I usually have my face in a book.”
Alfred nodded patiently. “And how soon were you hooked?”
“Faster than you can say ‘create a profile,’” Edna replied proudly. “I found myself logging in at least eight times each day—and more often at night. Sometimes I’d wake up at 3:00 AM to check it, just in case there was an update from one of my new friends in India. My husband didn’t like that. He said that friendship is a precious thing and should never be outsourced to a server farm.”
“What do you like most about Facebook, Edna?”
“It makes me feel like I have a life,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “In the real world, I have only five or six friends. But on
Facebook? I have 674. I’m even friends with Juan Carlos Montoya.”
“Who’s he?” Alfred asked, checking his notes.
“I don’t know,” Edna shrugged. “But he’s got 4,000 friends, so he must be famous. Or at least very popular with bots.”
“Facebook has certainly helped you make some connections, I see.”
“Oh yes. I’ve even connected with some of the gals from high school—I still call them ‘gals.’ I hadn’t heard from some of them in ages, so it was exciting to look at their profiles and figure out who’s retired, who’s still working, and who’s had some ‘work’ done. I love browsing their photos and reading their updates. I know where they’ve been on vacation, which movies they’ve watched, and whether they hang their toilet paper over or under. I’ve also been playing a game with some of them.”
“Let me guess. Farmville?”
“No, Mafia Wars. I’m a Hitman. No one messes with Edna.”
Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you rather meet some of your friends in person?”
“No, not really. It’s so much easier on Facebook. We don’t need to gussy ourselves up. We don’t need to take baths, wear perfume, or use mouthwash. That’s the best thing about Facebook—you can’t smell anyone through a screen. Everyone is attractive, because everyone has picked a good profile pic. One of the gals is using a profile pic that was taken, I’m pretty certain, during the Eisenhower Administration.”
“What pic are you using, Edna?”
“Well, I spent five hours searching for a profile pic, but couldn’t find one I really liked. So I decided to visit the local beauty salon.”
“To make yourself look prettier?”
“No,” Edna said matter-of-factly. “To take a pic of one of the young ladies there. That’s what I’m using.”
“Didn’t your friends notice that you look different?”
“Some of them did,” Edna admitted. “But I just told them I’ve been doing lots of yoga. It works wonders for the jawline.”
“When did you realize that your Facebooking might be a problem?”
“I realized it last Sunday night,” Edna said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I was on Facebook, scrolling through my feed, when I saw a message on my wall from my husband: ‘I moved out of the house five days ago. Just thought you should know.’”
Alfred leaned forward, concerned. “That sounds serious, Edna. What did you do?”
Edna looked him dead in the eye, shrugged her shoulders, and replied:
“What else? I unfriended him, of course!”
