It was just one of those casual facebook posts that flittered across my screen in the wee hours of the morning. A link directing me to a gallery of animated .gifs of kids getting “owned” by various accidents around the house and yard.
Now at the time I didn’t click on it. Not that I think it’s mean to show kids being kids and having bad things happen to them. After all, I was once a kid myself and experienced the same gentle shove of misfortune down the occasional flight of stairs.
Truth be told it was just that I wasn’t awake enough to guffaw and cringe to my maximum potential and I hate to not give something 100% of the attention it deserves.
So instead I jumped headfirst into the conversation below the link happening between friends and absolute strangers until I found the traditional response of a concerned parent.
“These aren’t kids getting owned, these kids are getting hurt.”
Of course my cynical and logical brain, before its minimum caffeine allotment, spurred my fingers into action before the rational thought of “maybe my big mouth should not tick people off on a kid related argument” could stop it. So hastily I smacked down that voice of reason with the desire an easy fight. Within seconds my logic trap was set with a simple statement:
“Technically getting owned IS getting hurt, be it emotional or physical.”
So like anyone spilling a barrel of oil on the freeway I did what any semi-narrsictic human being would do – I walked away on my merry way knowing that someone would lose traction and crash into my words. It was the internet and I was patient, and hungry, so I left for a nice breakfast of french toast and bacon.
Hours later, satiated and totally forgetting why I walked away in the first place, I returned to this sole response:
“Etymologically getting owned is being put in your place, be it through the loss of a verbal argument or competition, humiliation often being a key factor. A toddler ending in tears because they’ve cracked their head against the pavement… Ouchage- not necessarily own age.”
Well I couldn’t argue that the definition given was anything but sound. Except there was an exception to the rule, especially when you’re feeling like a troll.
“Gravity totally owned that poor kid,” I replied.
The mother relented, agreed and the troll won the day.