Anthropologists who spend years studying human behaviour are wasting their time.
A couple of hours on Facebook would do the trick.
We're addicted to the gossip on that damn newsfeed.
In essence, Facebook reminds me of my mother gossiping with her friends - minus their occasional complaints about haemorrhoids. Having said that, I've just checked and there is an actual haemorrhoids Facebook page and it has 220 likes.
Who the hell likes a haemorrhoids page?
Now I'm not questioning the community value of a haemorrhoids Facebook page.
Actually, I am. It's a risky business to seek online treatments without professional advice.
I hope no one walks into a doctor's surgery room with flames shooting from their backside, saying: "Well Doc, there is this homemade treatment on the haemorrhoids Facebook page. All I used is some moisturiser, a splash of petrol and a box of matches. Now, do you have a bucket of water?"
When we visit the doctor, we do not prance around his waiting room and give all the patients a thumbs-up because he gave us an anti-itch cream.
But 220 people did on Facebook. They gave a tick of recommendation to a page on haemorrhoids. That's Facebook at its finest and weirdest.
Our best and worst traits are revealed by our postings and replies - especially those infuriatingly cryptic status updates.
You know what I'm talking about. Those titbits of juicy information, those little morsels of gossip dangled in front of us like a worm on a fishing hook.
These people can't share the full story on Facebook. Oh no. They must tease us first.
Earlier this week, I spotted one on my newsfeed.
The post simply said: "I've had the worst day EVER!"