Franny, Facebook and the NSA


I could tell Franny was ready for a serious discussion by the way she braced herself against my chest, leaned into my face, and stared meaningfully into my eyes.

“What is it?” I asked, reluctantly putting aside my book. I ran down a list of possible Franny concerns: Franny food, Franny blanket, Franny toy or chewy, some squirrel outside shrieking in a decibel only she could hear, maybe even that annoying helicopter whupping in the distance, but none seemed to get her tail wagging. “OK, what then?” I couldn’t imagine what she had on her mind. Of course I couldn’t, because it turned out she was having grave doubts about her Buttbook page.

It took a moment (the kind of moment you would have if you were at the zoo and a monkey asked you for a date) but I finally recalled a discussion the Wieners had a couple of…

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