Why the phrase "Like if you agree" is ridiculous

There comes a time in all of our lives when we're bombarded with an obstacle that serves little to no purpose and only manages to induce a level of frustration those on a tight schedule don't have the time to overcome. These include, but are not limited to, pedestrian crossings beside traffic islands; excessive use of road cones around something like a decent-sized shard of glass; and single trees situated in the middle of parking lots, rendering the forward-out car movement both impossible and hazardous.

However, the most terrible man-made catastrophe is also the most recent, namely, in-your-face captions that assume people are idiots, but tell them nothing they didn't already know. The battered, beaten and torn-from-its-limbs-before-being-burned phrase, "Like if you agree".

There's a reason why no one adds this line to the end of their status updates. It's the same reason why a drink bottle doesn't have "drink if you're thirsty" written on its side, or why a pizza doesn't have "edible" scribbled all over it (in sauce).

Anyone who's anyone knows what it means to like something; and of those people, everyone knows what it means to like something on Facebook! Which therefore makes the phrase 'like if you agree' redundant in all circumstances. Yet, it's used as the caption for so many photos and quotes, predominantly on Facebook!

Whenever I come across this phrase, I think to myself, "As opposed to what?" or "Are there people so stupid they have to be told to like something?" or "You could reword that to, 'agree if you agree', since people generally like things they agree with. And you know how stupid it would sound then? Super stupid!"

Of course, such thoughts do nothing to better the community. Naturally, the activist in me leaps to the stage and makes its mark by not liking the post even if I agree with it simply because it has that rotten caption stuck to it like a cancerous growth. I know it's not much, but if we all did it, maybe it'd go away.

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Facebook Manipulation

I love the Internet. I really, really do. I mean, it provides an endless network of social media; it accommodates YouTube; it enables text, voice and video messaging from anywhere; and it sustains itself with ads, of which we usually only have to watch the first five seconds! It’s great! Which is why it’s a shame, a pudding-headed, nincompoopery, thrice-damned shame, that it’s the cause for a universal increase in both peer pressure and immaturity.

Time and time again, while browsing the latest in my news feed, I see a quote or photo someone’s so valiantly made the effort to share. It details a certain and very respectable cause like poverty, child abuse, abortion or the meaning of Easter, often pretending to be wise by referencing a famous entrepreneur, and catching the reader’s attention with a colourful background or graphic photo. Occasionally, and I mean very occasionally, I’ll get to about half way and think to myself, “Hmm, this one might not be so bad. I mean, it’s worded well, proof-read and so far doesn’t sound manipulative.” Yet every time, no doubt, I end up speaking too soon. And nowadays, I simply throw palm to face at each and every attempt:

The point is clear regardless of your religious beliefs. (I personally believe that Jesus was the Son of God. So if I believed Him to be a God of black mail, peer pressure and guilt trips, I might’ve obliged).

Other examples read like this:

See the bruises and cuts? This child is a victim of child abuse. If you’re legitimately against child abuse, share this photo and show that you have a heart. Only some people will share because only a few truly care.

In other words: "if you don't share this ugly picture of a child covered in bruises and cuts, it means you support child abuse."

Of course, common sense will remind you that you don't think that kid deserves to be plastered all over the net, especially when it was very likely done so without his or her consent. And logic will tell you that, before reading the text, you didn’t support child abuse; so how are you any more supportive of it now that you’ve been bombarded with a superficial and typo-infested post with false statistics?

Such posts are, fundamentally, emotionally deceptive and exploitative. They subtly coerce readers to act, to do as the post says, lest they feel guilty for essentially ignoring a genuine cause that requires but five seconds of their extensive free time (they’re procrastinating on Facebook, after all). Yet, what’s more frustrating than these posts are the people who repost them, because the posts themselves wouldn’t be reposted – they’d be useless – if people weren’t so easily swayed. This reasoning has led me to ask myself, “Why do I still have friends who do this?” I guess my undying hope is that they’ll one day move on.

Dear reader,

You’ve already read too much. But I thought you should know this anyway even though it means you’re going to die. “How am I going to die?” You ask. Tonight, when you’re asleep… a grotesque, undead creature that lives in your basement with glowing red eyes and teeth like knives; with arms that extend and latch onto you from afar, enabling its disjointed jaw to devour you piece by piece; and whose breathing – you know when it’s near – is frantic and bloodthirsty, is going to invade your bedroom. The horror of its presence will wake you, but before you die you’ll see its mangled silhouette against the filtered streetlight; and its ghoulish groans as it takes you from your bed will be the last thing you hear. That is of course unless you forward this blog post to fifty people in the next ten minutes!

Oh no – here he comes! I am but seconds too late…. I urge you… do not delay…!

Kind of like chain letters and how they get passed around – actually, exactly like chain letters. Except, instead of superstition, which humans can brush off with a personal reminder that ghosts and stuff don’t exist, the manipulative posts as discussed above seem to be far harder to avoid because they play on people’s emotions, and the causes they represent are often very real. It’s not just a light tickle of one’s morality; it’s quite brutal and direct, like a personal attack. It’s saying, “You’re a bad person if you don’t share this.” And those affected, whom I dearly hope aren’t also the ones responsible for the exponential lengthening of chain letters (because, if they are, then I have some de-friending to do), aren’t secure or mature or reasonable enough to stop and say, “Actually, I’m only sharing this out of guilt and peer pressure rather than genuine compassion or concern – and that’s not a legitimate reason.” At the end of the day, you’ve got a hundred million people who’ve shared a child abuse poster and done nothing else because they felt guilty, and fifty people who’ve donated money or a day of their lives because they actually care – and none of those fifty even saw the poster.

The Internet, while great, is plagued with these pictures and quotes. They’re fuelled by unchecked emotion, do nothing for the purpose they claim to serve, and only end up making half the world feel bad about their apathy, and the rest of us frustrated because such posts, and people, and letters about ghosts and serial killers with chainsaws as their weapons of choice, who look horrific and smell funny and only kill you while you’re in bed, with no reports having ever been recorded on such killings, exist!

I’m gullible, but not that gullible; and, thankfully, I’m emotionally stable enough not to share emotionally-manipulative Facebook crapaganda! Now, share this blog post if you're with me! (For those who still need convincing, see the letter italicised above. The clock is ticking).

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The awkward “I know you from somewhere, but I’m not going to say anything unless you say something” look.

(A record of [largely fictional] thoughts depicting an actual event):

July 17, 2012

4:10pm:

Shopping is boring. I don’t like shopping. But it’s winter, and I need warm clothes. Plus I’m with a friend, which makes it less boring.

4:14pm:

This mall is long. I'm bored. I want to play video games. Wait, is that… Hmm, the middle-aged stocky man advancing towards me - I think I know him. Yes! But from where? Church? Nope. Uni? Nup. Culprit who threw a rock at my windscreen last Wednesday except without the hood? Doubt it. Then… who?

4:14pm and 4 seconds:

Rats; he’s seen me seeing him, and I can’t hide. Curse my tallness! And I still haven’t matched face to event. Jog faster, long term memory! Who is this mystery man?

Half a second later (Time slows down when you're placed on the pedestal of awkward):

I know. I’ll look away and pretend he’s just another random, which, for all I can be sure, is all he is. Yeah.

At the onset of the following second:

He’s still staring at me. Weird. He’s more than surpassed the suitable length of time it takes to glance at an individual in order to perceive one’s immediate surroundings. He’s verging on creep. Or perhaps he longs for verbal recognition, to feel a sense of worth. Mind you, his eyes are big, almost… criminal. Wait, he is the hooded rock-thrower who’s since de-hooded himself, isn’t he? Is he sizing me up? I could take him.

A single step in his direction later:

The windscreen incident was a dream. Quit thinking it was real. Time for plan B: express a half-smile that satisfies both possible outcomes. If he’s a complete random as the case may well be, then I’ll look like no more than someone whom everyone would jump at the chance to befriend. Conversely, if he’s indeed someone I’m recognising from an unspecified event in my exciting life, then my smile could be interpreted as one of acknowledgement, saying,

“My dear gentleman, 

Indeed, ‘gentleman’ is all I can offer you, for as of yet I don’t know your true name, or even where I’ve seen you before. Ho ho ho; you’re probably in the same boat, old duck, thinking to yourself as we pass, with nary a handshake, ‘What name do I give to this familiar face, which seeks to appease my poor recollection with a friendly widening of cheeks?’ And appease I shall, in the manner you’ve just reflected, in fact. Though, my cheeks are only so wide so that if you are not the man that my brain insists I vaguely envision, then you won’t think me a ‘weirdo’, as it were. Indeed, I am more socially savvy than I care to let on.  As such, there’s no use in verbal appreciation of our coincidental intersect in the, though it be somewhat verbose to say, intersecting roads of life. You’re busy; I’m busy. You’re white; I’m half brown. Blimey! The conversation would be an effort, to put it lightly. So, mister Bloggs, if you are whom I think you are, then don’t get miffed. Instead, return the smile, that is, if you recognise my half-smile as the smile it’s half-daring to be. But, regardless, I do indeed wish you the best in all your future endeavors. 

God save the queen!”

He skirts between friend and me:

Jogging partner? Nope, I don’t jog; generic yet recurring passer-by? no sir; past life? Aha! He goes to my old church! Well, that wasn’t so hard. Hmm, perhaps I should’ve said-

Simultaneously, I walk past Robert Harris:

CAKE!

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Common selfishness

Small talk. An essential tool for general human-to-human communication, yet constituting a type of mutual selfishness.

In the twenty seconds of downtime between when you first see your doctor and he decides to get on with his job, he might ask, "How are you?" to which you respond with one of the following.

"Good/fine/all right."

"Good/fine/all right, thanks."

"Good/fine/all right, thanks. Yourself?" (Warning: grammatically incorrect)

"Sick, obviously."

"Murderous."

It's likely that, with any positive reply, he'll smile and say, "That's good!" and with a negative, "Aw, that's too bad." And regardless, "How may I help you today?"

You see, from his perspective, he doesn't care that much. On the surface, he genuinely hopes you're well, that you get better; and he's genuinely pleased when your day's been a blast. Beyond that, however, he doesn't give a rat's ass. This isn't a bad thing, mind you. He simply doesn't have time for a lecture of, say, why your day's been so awesome. Heck, he doesn't even know you. From his perspective, he's filling in the silence with verbal acknowledgement of your presence.

Likewise, from your point of view, you know he doesn't care that much. You acknowledge that he hasn't got the time of day for details beyond "good" and "fine". And it's likely you don't want to waste your allocated fifteen minutes revealing personal information to someone you barely know. Furthermore, you know that he understands this. From your perspective, 'fine' is all but sufficient. For both of you.

In short, he doesn't care about you. You don't care that he doesn't care about you. Nothing needs to be said. Hand over the money and go. Common selfishness.

Fundamentally, it's always the same. But we're humans. We're relational. We have to bury the "I don't care-ness" as far down as possible. So far that even we, the very culprits with spades still brandished, are as unaware as any.

It happens naturally, and we change it up with our tone of voice. Perhaps my day's been rather depressing. Got a speeding ticket, cat threw up, internet stopped working, had to wake up before 8 - you know, genuine rich world problems. If someone asked, "How are you?" I might say, "Mm. Good?" with a rather high tone to indicate uncertainty. And with that, I've told them all they want to know; and I've been completely honest, too: "I haven't really got anything to complain about, but my day could have been better." All in two words. Common selfishness. Respect.

We do it all the time - adopting a tone to accommodate our given level of 'good'. And while some people are better at it than others, we're aware that our small talk is often teeming with all kinds of apathy. High or low, short or tall, no matter the tones of people you meet; if you've heard it once, you've heard it a thousand times. Mutual selfishness. You can go now.

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Stop taking pictures of everyday food and putting them on Facebook

"You spent twenty minutes putting some ingredients together so you could feed yourself. How innovative!"

"All this time I thought you were anorexic. Glad that's not the case."

"You went shopping, bought a steak and cooked it? Please, allow me to bow down to the sheer excitement that is your life!"

These are the kinds of thoughts that run through my mind when I see a photo of food someone's so eagerly dumped onto Facebook. And I don't mean nice, fancy, this-took-me-three-hours-to-make-and-there-were-several-times-I-expected-it-to-fail food; not even funny, pretty or generally cool food, like ninjabread men. (These I appreciate. Facebook needs an achievement system for such spectacles of art).

I'm referring to those plain bowls of I-made-two-minute-noodles-and-everyone-needs-to-know-about-it. Here's an illustration of just how revolutionary they really are.

Who knew?

In any case, the above thoughts are quickly pushed aside in the light of one simple question. Why?

Why do you feel the need to share that your boiled egg is white and not, in fact, purple? Why do I need to know that you had dinner? Are you implying that you go hungry every night you don't upload a photo?

Did you kill the cow to which that slab of steak belonged? No? Then why?

Regardless of this unanswered question, these photos still manage to garner a few likes. Heck, even I've considered liking one on occasion: "Jenny always acts like a robot. I was beginning to think she was one. But now that I know she eats food, I guess she's human after all. This deserves a like." Heh, not quite. Jenny limits her food photos to those of high presentation and quality, regardless of her robotic characteristics. Thumbs up, Jennifer!

There's a reason I don't take a picture of my meat pie that took exactly three minutes to microwave; I can't see why anyone would care. So next time you think to upload a photo of food, think again. Is it the best pie you've ever had? Does this mark the first time you've ever eaten meat? Is your pie full of cockroaches instead of mince? Did you think Facebook was some massive cooking blog that's gone insanely off topic? If your answer's no to all of these, then please, spare me the 110kb and keep your pie to yourself.

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Series Review: Nikita

Tech-heavy spy drama at its most intense

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by Matthew Ferri
*Vague spoilers

A rogue agent makes it her mission to take down a secret criminal organisation she used to work for called Division. Suffice it to say that this isn't the most original plot; nor is the master-of-all-trades rogue agent herself very realistically portrayed; and don't get me started on the technology or the copious amounts of fake deaths. Fortunately, they're all part of the same thrilling backdrop for a cast of multi-faceted characters, who together display a spectrum of unwavering ambition. Indeed, every good guy and bad guy has a goal, an aim, something to live for. And while they aren't all equally convincing, they transcend the history of Division itself: a metaphor for distinction and identity. If nothing else, Nikita has depth.

Division consists of two separate parties embodied in its bleak colour scheme: black and white - those giving orders, and those carrying them out. Not knowing any better, Nikita was once one of those being ordered around. Then, one day, her eyes opened and she realised she had to get out. You guessed it: she faked her death, sacrificing her identity; and over the next three years she trained her partner in crime, Alex, who, from the start of Season One, is granting her intel as a mole in the heart of Division. You see, there's a third party whom she and Nikita represent. For a while, they're the only ones; and to everyone else, their identities - their motives and ambitions - don't exist. They're grey: a colour not explicitly present in Division, yet a mixture of black and white, which our heroes have taken onboard, fuelling their vengeful drive to take down Division and its corrupt leader, Percival "Percy" Rose.

Vengeance - the one motivation that is its own weakness. Like all Division-trained operatives, Nikita and Alex were criminals in prison or on death row. As such, they each have a dark past filled with sacrifice, compromise and regret, shaping their decisions, feelings and fears in the present. Nikita's most substantial remorse comes as a major twist towards the end of Season One, breaking Alex's trust in Nikita and directing it instead to Amanda, Percy's partner in world domination. Grey: such an unhappy mix of light and dark that cannot be undone.

But there are enemies among enemies as well. It soon becomes clear that Percy, the invincible mastermind and Amanda, the conniving black widow stricken with insatiable loneliness, are each playing their own little game; and together they heartlessly destroy whatever fragments of trust they ever shared. Even Birkhoff, the comic relief tech guy, gets his portion of drama; but he's mainly there for comedy and smarts; and I must say, he has some pretty good lines. "Look, Nikki, you're allowed to miss him. But he's coming back. You guys are... you're meant to be. You're like Bonnie and Clyde, except without the last scene."

Nikita: Season One Trailer (2010)

While the plot itself isn't exactly innovative, its execution is often unpredictable, and its progression incredibly fluid. When Nikita and Alex aren't enough to stop Division, Michael - Percy's right-hand man and Nikita's foreseeable boyfriend - joins the good side. Amanda takes over and Percy is imprisoned; Nikita gradually adds to her team, forming a generic but very likeable force. As Birkhoff puts it, "Nikita incorporated, baby. Live and work in the same space. Just like the Enterprise." Amanda gets thrown out but confides in another powerful villain; and Percy, whose endgame involves making the US president his puppet, finally gets outplayed. Plot and character development go hand in hand. We see more vulnerability from Nikita as Percy's shadow of doom appears unstoppable. But it's through her humanness that she realises her need for friends; and through them her mission becomes possible once again.

The finale, one in which the creators had to both satisfy viewers with a resolution and keep the plot open in case the series was renewed again, was aptly done. Nikita infiltrates Division one final time, reluctantly willing to be taken down along with it. Yet, in a reversal of roles, Percy and Division become outnumbered, and Percy himself, if only for a second, gets outsmarted by Nikita. A second is all it takes; and a very distressed Percy looking pitifully up into Nikita's face saying, "No..." is the last we see of him. He meets a timely yet unpredictable end, after which Nikita and co. take Division by the reins; and with the passing line, "There are still monsters out there," we get a shot of Amanda standing over a terminal, which reads, 'Game change.' In one of the closing scenes, Alex says, "Here we go?" to which Nikita replies, "Here we go again." Thus, the snippet of Amanda could easily be interpreted as a symbol for the endless spawn of enemies who seek to undo justice, against whom Nikita must perpetually wage war. But the series has indeed been renewed for another season; so it's instead a clear indication that we'll be seeing more of the infamous black widow next year. Overall, a brilliant episode, both satisfying viewers and leaving them with several unanswered questions.

No show is perfect, though. Nikita occasionally suffers from writer's block: running out of ways for the good guys to win, so recycling earlier solutions, making the series feel just a tad ripe. However, these instances are few and far between. In all other cases the entertainment is top notch, sacrificing fundamental originality and overt realism (neither of which the show aims to achieve anyway) for a cast of highly developed characters and a steady plot inside an action-packed thrill ride. I have no doubt that season three will deliver in the same light. The concept of Division is ironic. It's designed to give people a second chance, to whitewash their black slates. Yet each and every character is a testament to the reality that no one is black nor white. Nikita and Alex don't forget their pasts; they learn to accept them, and each other.

4 Stars out of 5

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Thank the Maker for Videogames

P1. Media is educational

P2. Videogames are a form of media

C. Videogames are educational

Yeah, okay, that argument's pretty bad. But the conclusion's true. Addictive or not, videogames teach people a lot of stuff! I present to you some of the most notable things that videogames alone have imparted onto me:

1. The difference between 'effect' and 'affect'

There came a point in high school - it was an exam, no doubt - when the sentence I was penning was to adopt one of the two most commonly confused words in the English language. Being more pedantic about grammar than content (as you are by now well aware), I was determined to get the word right if it took me the remainder of the exam to do so. It didn't, of course. It probably took about ten seconds. Know why? Because at the onset of that ten seconds, a magical word jumped onto the subjective surface of my desk. Pokemon. And with it, the following, forever-ingrained lines of Nintendo-quality translation:

"It's super effective."

"It's not very effective."

"It doesn't affect enemy Pidgeotto."

Why Pidgeotto? you ask. Because it's Flying/Normal, giving it an astounding two Pokemon types to which it is immune (Ground and Ghost), and because it's also very common. Thus, Pidgeotto is one of the most notable Pokemon to which the phrase "It doesn't affect enemy-" is applied. Duh.

From there it was easy. I realised (and said seven times in my head lest I forget and have to repeat this time-consuming yet marvellous process) that 'affect' is a verb and 'effect' is a noun. Needless to say, I walked out of that exam more refreshed and enlightened than I did, say, the gym after earning my eighth badge! Heh heh, not quite.

2. Potion; flask; vial; phial; poultice; health globe?

Such a vast array of words, all of which tend to be used in very similar contexts. I was introduced to the potion when I was four, watching my brother play the critically acclaimed (and best game ever) Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past. I tended to only watch videogames rather than play them at that stage (and experience a covetous abundance of fun and joy and excitement) because videogames, even innocent ones like Mario, were too scary for me to actually play. But back to Zelda. In the northeast part of Hyrule, there was a potion shop, which sold red potions to refill your life bar, green potions to restore magic, and blue potions, which did both! This last one was quite pricey, mind you. Being the challenging game that it was, a wise player had to have equipped at least one bottle of juicy red potion at all times. There were fairies, too, which would automatically aid to you upon death; but they'd only restore seven hearts. Quite pathetic when a hit from the enemy took off three. Trainer tip: fairies are free of charge, so stock up on them early game.

3. Playing a survival-horror game is scarier than watching a survival-horror film. Immersion!

Furthermore, Regenerators are the most horrific, awful, grotesque, you-can't-help-but-pee-your-pants-at-the-sight-of-them creatures in virtual existence!

Sorry for the long video, but this one's the best! Watch from 10:00-12:00 and see this guy get owned! Kudos to him for his courage, though.

Resident Evil 4 is scary, man. When my brother bought it back in 2008 (by then it was four years old, hence the dated graphics), it took all of me and more to get through it. Even today, I can't play it at night with the lights off lest, when venturing to brush my teeth, I fear for my life that a Regenerator is lying in wait around an unlit corridor. (By corridor I mean simple hallway or room). Conversely, watching that video makes me want to play the game again!

There are scarier games; but there's no freakier enemy. I'm tellin ya.

Videogames have taught me a great deal more; but for today, those three are all we have time for. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not trying to argue that immersing yourselves in hours of videogames is productive, nor am I pretending they're a waste of life and need justifying. I'm just stating the facts, and, uh, perhaps wanted an excuse to talk about games. Ciao!

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