Daily Dabble: The Social Media Strip Search (Now with Verification Circus Edition)

Daily Dabble: The Social Media Strip Search

It started innocently enough. I just wanted to make an Instagram account for The Dabble. Post a few cartoons. Maybe toss up a funny story about Kushie. Done. It was a task so simple that I mentally slotted it between “take out the trash” and “refill the snack drawer.” Five minutes, I thought. Maybe ten if I got distracted by memes or fell down a rabbit hole of dog videos.

What I didn’t realize was that in 2025, signing up for social media is basically the TSA, the IRS, and your high school vice principal all rolled into one, armed with a clipboard, a ring light, and the persistence of a toddler who’s learned the word “why.”

At first, it seemed normal. Name. Email. Birthday. Sure. Fine. Whatever. Then came the dreaded “Enter your phone number for security purposes.” Security purposes? For me, or for Mark Zuckerberg’s yacht insurance? And I love how they always frame it like they’re doing you a favor. Like, “This is to keep your account safe.” Right. Because the best way to protect my privacy is by giving a tech giant even more of my private info. That’s like asking a raccoon to guard your Doritos.

You think you’re done, but no — the “optional” questions pop up like whack-a-mole. “What’s your location?” Earth. Next question. “Who are your contacts?” Bold of you to assume I want my boss knowing I post cartoons about being high. “Can we access your camera, microphone, and soul?” Optional in the same way wearing pants in public is optional — technically, yes, but you’re going to get a lot of unwanted attention if you skip it.

And it’s not just the what they’re asking. It’s how they ask. They slide it in between friendly prompts, like, “Add your birthday! Find your friends! Upload your DNA sample!” I half expected it to say, “Also, your Netflix password — just for verification purposes.”

Apparently, typing my name isn’t enough anymore. No, now we have video verification. “Please record yourself looking left, looking right, smiling, and blinking twice.” Cool. I’m sitting in my living room in pajama shorts, holding my phone like it’s a mugshot camera, trying to look natural while wondering: Is this going into some AI deepfake generator? And can I at least request they use me in a cool deepfake — like one where I’m shredding a guitar solo on top of a moving train?

By the third take, I’m pretty sure I’ve given Instagram enough footage to star in my own toothpaste commercial. At one point it asked me to “tilt my head slightly.” Tilt my head? This isn’t a glamour shoot. And have you ever tried to do a natural smile when you know there’s a faceless algorithm judging your blink rate? I looked like a guy trying to convince airport security I’ve never even heard of drugs.

And it’s not just Instagram. Oh no. Then there’s Reddit. I once signed up to share a totally wholesome post. Username picked. Password set. Before I even posted — BAM. Account permanently suspended. No explanation. No appeal. Just a little note that might as well have said, “Hi Bud, welcome to Reddit. Also, get out.” It’s like walking into a party, waving hello, and having the bouncer throw you back onto the street before you touch the chips. The irony is, I’ve seen what actually gets posted on Reddit. And I’m the problem?

Threads is the worst offender. I created an account, uploaded a profile pic, typed my very first post: “Hey, I’m Bud.” Gone. Account disabled. No warning, no reason. I didn’t even get the satisfaction of being canceled for something spicy — just the crime of existing for 14 seconds. It’s like being banned from a restaurant before you’ve even looked at the menu. Imagine walking in, hanging your coat, and immediately hearing, “Sir, you’re going to have to leave.”

By this point, Kushie’s sitting on the couch beside me, giving me the side-eye of doom. She’s like, “Really, Dad? You’re giving them a video of your face? You won’t even tell me where you hide the rolling papers.” And she’s right. I don’t trust anyone with my stash spots — not friends, not family — but somehow I’m letting Meta have a high-def scan of my left ear. She’s leaning against my leg, eyes darting between me and the phone like she’s trying to decide whether to bark at the screen or just stage an intervention.

Then the cookie banner hits. Not the edible kind (sadly). The legal kind, with fourteen paragraphs of “We will follow you and your unborn children across the internet forever.” Because I was baked, I decided to read it. This was my second mistake. Halfway through, I was convinced my webcam was already on, and Zuckerberg was eating a kale salad while watching me scroll. I swear the legal jargon was shifting as I read it, like it knew I was high and was messing with me on purpose.

And the cookies aren’t even the worst part — it’s the “Manage Preferences” button. Ever try to actually manage them? It’s like entering a maze designed by a particularly vengeful lawyer. Toggle after toggle of “Functional Cookies” and “Performance Cookies” and “Cookies That Judge You for Eating Other Cookies.” By the end, I gave up and hit “Accept All,” which is probably why I’m now getting ads for both weed grinders and ergonomic office chairs.

If you’ve been online long enough, you’ve seen it all. Facebook’s “Find Friends” dredging up your ex from 2007 like a horror movie jump scare. Dating apps asking for your exact GPS location “for better matches,” because nothing says romance like being able to pinpoint the other person’s couch in Google Street View. LinkedIn suggesting people you met once at a wedding three years ago and have spent every day since trying to forget. And now? Social media sign-ups that treat you like you’re applying for a loan, a passport, and a Netflix stand-up special all at the same time.

It’s absurd. I’ve renewed my driver’s license with less hassle. I’ve applied for jobs with fewer questions. Hell, I’ve crossed borders where the customs officer asked for less personal information. The only difference is, customs doesn’t also ask if I want to “sync my contacts for a better experience.”

In the end, I fought back the only way I could. I gave Instagram a fake birthday, a throwaway email, and my location as “The Moon.” For the video verification, I put on sunglasses, pulled up my hoodie, and stared into the camera like I was making a hostage tape. I answered just enough to get in, and nothing more. If they really want to track me, they can work for it — and maybe they’ll have to get through Kushie first. Good luck with that. She once fought a Roomba for dominance over the living room and won.

The sad part? I still got the account. And I still don’t trust it. Every time I log in, I half expect a pop-up saying, “We noticed you haven’t shared your exact blood type yet — it really helps us connect you with the right people.” And by “right people” they mean advertisers who will send me targeted promotions for artisanal CBD dog treats and suspiciously affordable smart fridges.

Social media sign-ups aren’t sign-ups anymore. They’re strip searches with better fonts and worse lighting. You go in thinking you’re making an account, and you come out wondering if you accidentally joined the Witness Protection Program. Somewhere between the blinking videos, the contact syncing, the phone number demands, and the endless “Accept All Cookies” screens, you start to question not just the app — but reality itself.

So here’s my advice: stay high, stay hidden, and for the love of Kushie, if an app asks for a video of your face — make sure you’re at least wearing a cool hat.

– Bud D. Lite