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Dad learns Twitter and has some nasty surprises

January 20, 2013

I was still curled up in bed on Saturday morning as I listened to Dad’s worried voicemail message.

‘Rachael, can you please phone me as soon as you get this,’ he said, sounding out of breath. ‘I got a direct message on Twitter saying they’ve heard someone else is spreading nasty blogs about me all over the internet. I’m calling my lawyers on Monday!’

I phoned him back.

‘It’s spam, Dad: spam,’ I said.

I realised I better clarify. ‘Not spam, as in ham, but as in someone has hacked into this guy’s account.’

‘Are you sure?!’


‘Oh, thank god, you’ve put my mind at ease,’ he said. He paused for a second. I could hear him clicking, tapping, considering.

‘And what about this True Twit? Someone else asked me to respond to his True Twit.’

”They just want to see you’re not spam,’ I reassured him.

‘I hate Twitter with vengeance,’ he said.

‘It’s “a vengeance”, Dad–‘

‘I hate it with vengeance, and I hate talking to everyone but no one and everyone has the attention span of an ant!” he ranted. ‘Everyone asking each other for True Twit and spreading nasty blogs all over the–‘

‘Is everything else going ok?’ I interrupted him. ‘You been tweeting much this week?’

I could almost hear him puffing out his feathers, like a peacock.

‘I’ve got 46 followers,’ he said proudly.

‘Great,’ I replied, worrying that that was almost as many as me. I needed to tweet more.

‘A couple prostitutes though,’ he said, as an afterthought.

‘That’s spam too,’ I said. ‘Just delete them.’

‘Well, I’ve removed one,’ he said.

‘Why not the other one?’

‘I’m not definitely sure she’s a prostitute,’ he said.


‘She’s being very flirty on the internet,’ he replied. ‘But she also has pictures of horses and things.’

‘That’s ridiculous! You can’t presume someone’s a prostitute just because she’s flirty!”

‘She talks about LEATHER, and PLASTIC, online, Rachael!’ he shouted. ‘You don’t talk about that shit online!’

I hoped dad wasn’t talking about leather, or plastic, or horses, anywhere else either.

‘You know a nice thing you could do, Dad,’ I told him. ”When someone follows you, simply reply to them and say: “thanks for the follow”. It kind of breaks the ice.’

‘Ok, fine,’ he huffed. ‘I’m just doing this because you said it was important.’

I had added Dad on Twitter about two weeks ago. When I next checked my emails, I saw he had finally responded.

‘Thank you for following me.’

Rather somber, and not flirty at all.


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