Oct. 1 arrived like a lawyer with a leaf blower, blasting my inbox full of terms and conditions updates I am legally expected to understand before breakfast.
There they were, stacked neatly between a coupon for tires and a newsletter from a gym I quit in 2017: Facebook has updated its terms. My bank has updated its terms. The company that makes the little biodegradable bags I use to pick up after my dog has updated its terms. Apparently even my dog’s waste now comes with a binding arbitration clause and the ability to access your GPS for some reason.
This is how autumn begins now. Not with pumpkins, not with crisp air, not with children joyfully leaping into piles of leaves, but with corporations quietly asking whether they may continue doing whatever it is they were already doing, only now with 40% more legal camouflage.
And we all click “Accept.” Why? Well, because we want our checking accounts and our Facebook recipes and our dog poo to be scooped up.
Of course we do. What else are we supposed to do? Read them?
The average terms and conditions document appears to have been written by a committee of attorneys trapped in a windowless room and paid by the comma. It is less a document than a hostage situation. You open it thinking, “I should be a responsible citizen,” and four paragraphs later you are in Section 12.7(b)(iii), learning that by using the app you waive all rights to sue in this universe or any adjacent dimension.
Somewhere buried in there is probably a clause granting the company permission to rename your firstborn “Premium Content.” I wouldn’t know. Nobody would know. That’s the beauty of it.
These things are long enough to qualify as Russian novels, but without the benefit of characters, plot, or redemption. At least in “War and Peace,” someone eventually gets to dance at a ball. In a terms of service agreement, the closest thing to romance is “data may be shared with trusted partners,” which is corporate lingo for “your grocery preferences are now dating an insurance algorithm.”
And the notices always arrive with the breezy tone of a friend reminding you about brunch.
“We’re updating our privacy policy!”
Are you? How festive. Shall I bring pie?
They never say, “We have rewritten the rules governing your digital existence in language that would make a tax accountant chew through drywall.” No, it’s always “We’ve made some changes,” as if they moved the sofa closer to the window. Meanwhile, you’re none the wiser that they’ve now sold your mother’s photographs to Saudi Arabian golfers.
My bank’s email assured me the updates were “designed to serve you better.” This is the same bank that charges me a fee for not having enough money, which is like a lifeguard fining you for drowning. If the terms are designed to serve me better, I assume they now include a provision where, in the event of economic hardship, the bank sends over a casserole and rubs my shoulders.
Facebook’s update was equally cheerful. I clicked the link out of morbid curiosity and was immediately transported into a legal swamp where “content,” “services,” “affiliates,” and “applicable law” floated past like alligators wearing reading glasses. After six minutes, I understood only that I had agreed to something years ago, would agree to it again and somewhere a server farm in Nevada knew I had paused too long on a video of a raccoon washing grapes.
But at the root of all these changes is legalese, garbage and clauses that take away something from you. Every one. When have you ever opened a terms and conditions document that was only three sentences long? “We think you’re great! Here’s $500 because you’re cool. Have a great year.”
But nope. You get a class-action lawsuit waived because you watched that grape video three times instead of just two.
“By reading this column, you agree to donate a toenail to science and receive your next edition of the newspaper without any R’s. And that raccoon grape video you like? We deleted it.”
