Go ahead, ban kids from social media, but please outlaw these grown-ups too

It’s always upsetting to discover that someone you love has done something you hate, such that – as much as you hate to say it – you will probably never love her quite as much again. So, when organising overlord Marie Kondo released the KonMari Stolp Phone Box earlier this year, I was initially prepared to overlook the fact it sounded like something that required its own Allen key and came with a side serve of Swedish meatballs.

But then it turned out that the box, which was designed to house a mobile phone, existed to “reduce digital clutter” by temporarily scrambling its signal and preventing notifications. That’s it. Given that phones already come with their very own inbuilt digital declutterer – aka the off button – the Stolp thing sounded suspiciously like a piece of irrelevant marketing whiz-bangery cooked up in a top-secret file marked “Shameless Bits Of Actual Clutter That Will Inevitably Not Spark Joy And Rightly End Up As Landfill”.

You know the types ... Credit: SMH graphics/iStock

The federal government is currently attempting to impose its own digital declutter on the lives of the under-16 set by introducing legislation to ban them from social media websites until they come of age. About damn time, as Lizzo might sing.

However, in the interests of not only looking a gift horse in the mouth but conducting a full inspection of its molars, might I respectfully suggest the plan doesn’t go far enough. The purge needs to extend to anyone on social media who (with apologies to Marie Kondo as she existed before the stupid phone box thing) routinely produces content that does not spark joy. I’m talking about all the mindless, malignant, mendacious bursts of methane masquerading as information for the masses, to wit:

The LinkedIn humble braggart: Anyone who has ever written any version of the following: “As acting vice president of human interactions brackets people slash assistance animals, I am honoured to be reserve panellist at the PWC conference on committing tax avoidance in an environmentally safe and respectful way.” Your résumé is boring, no one cares about your pronouns and that conference sounds drier than a newly discarded scone in air-conditioning. Help yourself to a finger sandwich and get off social media.

The Twitter/X twit: By day, you’re a high-flying corporate schmuck whose love language is billable hours. By nightfall, you’re in deep cover, thanks to your Twitter handle, @JohnGeorgeNicolay, which only your fellow enlightened anonymous mudslingers will recognise was the name of Abraham Lincoln’s private secretary, #chortle. From there, you can arm yourself with a virtual flamethrower and stalk the murky corners of the Twitter reXtum, releasing random pops of flatulence disguised as incisive social commentary that you’d never dare to put your real name to, #cackle. Your EA has scheduled an existential crisis tomorrow at 3pm. Get yourself another hobby and get the hell off social media.

The Insta imbecile: Has anyone ever told you how fabulous you are? No, really. You are the eighth tattooed wonder of the world. Here’s you in a sarong on the beach in Santorini, taking photos of your feet and annoying the locals. Here’s you in Abu Dhabi, shopping at Louis Vuitton and annoying the locals. Here’s you “discovering the ski season” in Japan (even though you ran into eight of your Sydney mates in the bar) and annoying the locals. We get it, you travel. You’re awesome and worldly and rich and everyone wants to be you. Now, go sleep off the jetlag and, for safety’s sake, don’t forget to deflate your lips beforehand.

The TikTok drop-kick: When William Shakespeare wrote that “all the world’s a stage”, he couldn’t possibly have foreseen that it would eventually be shanghaied by a generation of lip-synching, bum-dancing, drag-racing, advice-spouting, sympathy-soliciting, stunt-performing wannabes with a mobile phone camera and a dream. The average TikTok video goes for 42.7 seconds, which is approximately 42.6 seconds longer than anyone should be expected to watch you single-handedly attempt to resurrect Peter Andre’s career by gyrating to Funky Junky. It is what it is. No more socials for you.

The WhatsCrap breeder: You read the 8 million notes from school about today’s swimming carnival, and you almost broke your brain trying to figure out the answer to the question that has plagued you ever since: should you send your kid in swimmers? It’s just that the notes didn’t specifically say. OK, they did. Numerous times. But they didn’t specify whether the swimmers should be a two-piece or a one-piece. OK, they did. Also, numerous times. And technically, since you have a son, the whole bikini/one-piece SNAFU doesn’t actually apply in your case, but if your phenomenally idiotic question can save just one child under 16 … oh, wait. Did someone say something about a social media ban? Hang on. Wait. What?

Michelle Cazzulino is a Sydney writer.