Riff Raff, "Spring Breakers" and Douche Metatextuality
Back in my New York east village days, I once met indie film whatsit somethingorother enfant whatevers Harmony Korine.
It was at a screening of Gummo at Anthology Film Archives. ’98 or ’99. I was fresh outta film school, back when there still was film, and kinda interested in seeing if there was any merit at all in some arty eurotrash made by a 20-something proto-hipster.
Korine and his posse came to the screening. They sat in the back, sipping 40s and talking loudly.
During the movie, Korine and his Prepster Posse would make weird humming noises at various points. Occasionally, they broke out in rhythmic clapping. They seemed to have come up with some plan for live “accompaniment” to the film.
Typical entitled prep school asswipes pretending to slum it as outsider artists, I thought to myself. I theoretically peed on them. But the movie was engaging in a visceral sort of way. I will give it that.
The “happening” ended. Afterwards, in the lobby, Korine stood around getting his ass kissed by the cineastes and stuttering in an affected way. I lit out for the glory that was the original (corner) Joe’s Pizza. Over a slice of perfectly heated cheese, I promptly set about erasing all synapse memory of that clown’s douchey-ass herpster hair, Eternal Sunshine style. Obviously, I didn’t fully succeed. As evidenced by this post.
Cut to now.
Korine’s back. Now he’s post-irony, fusing the avant-garde with hip-hop douche culture in the upcoming Spring Breakers. Co-hipster James Franco is even along for the ride, playing HCwDB poo-legend, Riff Raff. Selena Gomez and a few other Disney Princess pop up as Woo Hottie uber-archetypes to be stared at like zoo animals. Shit happens. Things go wrong. Who the hell knows. D.J. Douchewipe of the moment Skrillex even drops the proverbial mass marketed beat. More stuff ensues. Wacky.
So now the art-indie-pop thing is everywhere. And, with it, some P.T. Barnum carnivalesque media blitz strategy. Fueds. Fights. Backstory. Anything to sell tickets to the kids.
And it all centers on Riff Raff. Douche extraordinaire. Wigga to the x-treme, as Poochy might say.
A few days ago, Grantland’s Amos Barshad wrote up this nice take-down of the Korine-Riff Raff pseudo-feud. Barshad gets it right. Art-shtick.
Long time readers know that Riff Raff has been bouncing around HCwDB for years, although so rarely with hot chicks and so obviously a constructed performance, the mock seemed a bit redundant.
As the cycle of mass media echo runs its lap, Franco as Riff Raff is an important milestone. Riff Raff was the beginning of post Jersey Shore meta-ironic douche culture. The moment at which spectacle became recodified as the means of subverting any and all cultural critique. If the douchebag is in on the proverbial “joke” then the douchey behavior is suddenly acceptable. From the authenticity of true douche essence, Donkey Douche and The Gator, to the cashing-in ethos of the performative ‘Raff.
Franco-as-Riff-Raff is our hall of self-reflexive mirror hip-hop herpster douche amalgam. Like the great Woody Allen pastiching The Lady From Shanghai in Manhattan Murder Mystery, the line between homage, reuse, and parody all become concurrently blurred.
And so Riff Raff bitches, Franco denies, and everyone pays to see Vanessa Hudgens’s ass.
Selling sex by way of metatextual melodrama. Who ripped off the other by way of the authentic recreation?
Will the real Slim Douchey please stand up?
Spring Breakers is an important film. Spectacle for spectacle’s sake, with a knowing know-nothing wink to the audience of the utter meaninglessness of the cosmic dance. As The Coen Brothers once quoted Rashi in A Serious Man, accept with simplicity all that happens to you.
Phallic guns as homoerotic penis substitutes. Disney princesses doing blow. It’s all grist for the pop culture blender.
On to the next Adderal stimulant.
And the cosmic consumption dance keeps spinning across the increasingly meaningless classicism of some art-pop-mass culture divide. That never even existed in the first place, Da Da very much.
This s why DB1 is STILL the man, great post boss.
You mean we’re gonna get to see Vanessa Hudgens’ cooter, don’t ya.
Vanessa Hudgens’s ass?
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Um. Yes. Right, then. I must attend this piece of cinéma vérité, toute suite, to delve into these deeper philosophical waters. And shit.
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You reckon they’ll show Selena Gomez’s poontang?
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Pedos
Here is a much better film that kicks Korine’s doodi P slurpin’ ass. I call it “Paula Deen Riding A Jersey Fuck Mule” and it is Art.
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I just got u addicted to what my dick did. Slurpers.
I have no idea what all of that intellectual rambling was about, nor do I have any idea who Harmony Korine is.
What I do know, is that Riding-the-shoulders Pear there is yumtastic.
She’ll do things in Panama City that she’ll deny to the death, though pictures that thoroughly detail her nastiness will be shared amongst the fratboy illuminati back at Podunk State College. Things that involve inflatable pool toys inserted into inappropriate places and a fresh spring break hair cut, because while a dab of peanut butter can help get bubble gum out of your hair, all it does to semen is create peanut butter-flavored semen.
Riding The Shoulders Pear is about to give that guy a Mississippi Chocolate Rooster Tail. Look it up on Urban Dictionary…give me a 5 minute head start first though.
Mississippi Chocolate Rooster Tail
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Usually bestowed by drunken girlfriends riding upon the shoulders of their boyfriends at concerts while shouting “Wooooo!” with so much gusto that they momentarily lose the grip of their sphincter, releasing a torrent of the previous night’s Taco Bell visit down the gentleman’s back – much like a chocolate rooster tail.
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” Yo – Charline gave Tommy a Mississippi Chocolate Rooster Tail at the Phish concert last night, Brah! Totally ruined his Ed Hardy tee, son!”
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by Torque MuleBrow on Mar 25, 2013
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tags: poop, mississippi, scat, doo doo, feces
Now my head really hurts. Na mean? I thought that Spring Break flick was about a bunch a cute chicks, drinkin’ and makin’ out whilst in bikinis. And this Riff Raff character looks like he could use a beatin’.
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I knew a pair a Cohen Brothers in my day, but they was the type to bust up your mush for owin’ the local Shyster a couple a clams and then go have a bagel with lox and a schmear. Lox and a schmear, I says.
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All this fancy talk about pictures is above my head. I like simple movies like The Godfather, The Color a Money, High Plains Drifter, The Seventh Seal, and Satyricon.
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Oh, and I’d like to say “A Ziezen Pesach,” to all a my good Jew friends.
Nothing like starting off a Monday with a well written DB1 rant and some Mississippi Chocolate Rooster Tail (WTF?). Maybe this week won’t be as shitty as I imagined when I rolled out of bed this morning.
Harmony Korine looks like the fifth grader that already needs to shave.
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Got three sentences in on Db1’s post and zoned out. Could not give a shit about this dude nor Db1’s reasons to hate on him.
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And despite the very interesting James Franco and the “I would eat her ass” Vanessa Hudgens that movie looks like tripe. Tripe, I says
As a counterpoint, Mr. Douchal, any hipster art faygitt named “Harmony” that looks like this:
deserves to be beaten silly with a sack of frozen cat turds.
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Harmony, I says.
He needs to be sat down and told “GET A JOB, MOTHERFUCKER”. And then back-hand slapped with a turd-thong, thusly causing him to weep like a French woman.
Okipjomed apapaA. g
You haven’t lost your fastball DB1…and in this post-douchepocalypse world, we need you more than ever.
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And for all posterity:
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https://www.google.com/search?q=Mississippi+Chocolate+Rooster+Tail&ie=utf-8&oe=utf-8&aq=t&rls=Palemoon:en-US:official&client=firefox-a&channel=rcs
^Fucking iPhones are hard to text on while speeding to Montreal for supper..and shit . Fuck you apple shit I have to use. I got 99 problems and a Pc isn’t one.
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I’m go get stoned on the balcony as the Mrs. tease her hair up into a big 80’s do so as to sup and concert.
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Jacques Doucheteau is Portlands only Riff-Raff fan. I’ll watch that movie on Netflix and pause at the appropriate points. And by points I mean young poon. Son and shit.
This still here? We need to change the subject
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And discuss Columbian models. As hot as Brazilian models?
With all due respect Rev, eat a dick. I don’t live in Portland, and you couldn’t pay me a sack full of assholes to hang out there any more than necessary. I live in different part of Oregon, where the college co-eds run free and bounce their wares in the warmer months and lick gumball lollipops and take shots off of each others elastic pink sphincters. Pipe shops and “hooka lounges” are on every corner, and downtown has three bars at every intersection, and two in between blocks. Good ol’ Shelbyville, OR.
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Filmmakers and producers are the lowest form of bottom sucking pond scum imaginable. They dare to make a living off of intellectually jacking other people off like a two-bit whore in an alley. Instead of producing something of use to society like clothing, food, toilet paper, or carburetors, they con a bunch of technologically-inclined blue collar schlubs into running a bunch of cameras and other auxiliary equipment to “capture their vision on film”, or what ever fanciful wet-dreams of ooh-la-la, dick sucking accolades their hoping to receive.
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Though Oliver Stone is a special kind of shit hole. Not only does he use the fake-assery form of movies to make his living, but he hocks his own socio-political assertions like the child-raping huckster he is and has the fucking gall to try an garner as much praise as he can for spewing out turd after turd of cinematic garbage. Take your conspiracy theories and neatly wrapped up statements on what’s wrong with the world and shove it down your self-serving piss-hole you cyst sucking maggot.
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You wanna know why you and all your other X-files obsessed conspiracy babbling lackies believe stupid shit like how the moon landing was faked and 9/11 was an inside job? Because your too myopic and infantile to effectively handle reality. You only insist the JKF, Kurt Kobain, and all the other false gods you worship were assassinated by some trained killer or shadowy organization because you can’t handle the fact that they blew their own brains out because they’re a pathetic junky who can’t handle the “pressure” of being famous. Boo fucking hoo. Or that JFK was a womanizing rich boy asshole who was taking out by some stupid yob with delusions of grandeur using a cheap rifle from a Sears catalog. Not because it’s not likely or anything, because it’s far more likely than YOUR twisted theories, but because you can’t imagine your idol dying in such a mundane, undistinguished way. Same reason so many people truly believe such obvious bullshit like that Jesus rose from the dead, Elvis is still alive, or Diet Dr. Pepper tastes like real Dr. Pepper. Only because that’s what you want to believe.
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Assholes.
Just kidding. You know I love you Rev.
D.S. Chocolate Mississippi Rooster Tail – I peed my pants with laughter.
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and shit
…anything like a Toledo MudHen?