The Fitbit Fuck-up
About two years ago, feeling left out of the game with my reliable but unostentatious ten dollar Walmart watch, l decided to use a twenty percent off coupon from Bed, Bath and Beyond and buy a trendy then and still trendy now Fitbit watch for one hundred and thirty dollars, the most l ever spent on a watch in my life. (Hey, that’s how l semi-retired at 55.)
After downloading its guts off the web, l took it for a test drive and found it to be not just a neat tech toy to tell time, but a great tool in maintaining my weight. I discovered particularly up at my PA home that l burned off a helluva lot more calories walking my Pete around the block then l did working out in the community gym. It was enough to overlook some deficiencies, like the cheap, hard to buckle wristband you usually got on one of those watches Time magazine would offer you as a freebie for opening a subscription, and the fact you had to remember to charge it up weekly; otherwise all you’d get was a blank screen.
But the biggest surprise/shock was when l realized Fitbit was – tracking me.
“Congratulations!” would suddenly sizzle on the screen and gave my wrist a jolt like one of my estim toys gave my dick when l reached 10,000 steps. Hmm… So Mr. Fitbit was watching every move l made from afar. My feeling of accomplishment quickly turned to one of skepticism as if l had, in some crazy way, been violated.
OK, fuckers, maybe you’re smart enough to have a cam camera in my little wrist toy and are even watching me burning off calories in the bedroom with one of my fuck buddies. Go ‘head, but if you put it up on U-tube or Xtube l want my cut of the streaming rights.
Now earlier this week it came out the enemy is using the Fitbit and similar devices worn by our jock conscious troops overseas to track not only their moves but their whereabouts, usually classified info.
So Big Brother is not just surveilling me. He’s building a data dossier to zap us all.
Love and kisses, Fitbit, from the Talaban.