Where's Waldouche: Rambling Edition
I know it’s quieter around here on weekends and I should probably be kicking back with my bottle of Thunderbird, my tasty HoHo snackcakes, and relaxing rather than mocking the choad.
But I just can’t resist.
Only minimally hung over from last night’s festivities, I sit back and wax philosophic on this Saturday.
I ponder the simulation and the authentic. The original and the copy.
The spectacle in the age of multitasking multimedia revolution. The eroticized name-brand plumage of store bought purchased identity. Identity as marker of commodity fetish reinvented as eroticized object of desire. Spectacle as commodity. Douchuousness as reinscribing one’s self worth within the media age.
The masses of swirling overstimulated over-caffeinated uber-cacaphony, transmuting down the waterslide of digital media in a shower of pixelated ones and zeros. The form over function in an age of spectacle without nourishment. The artform of schizophrenia, the blurring of aesthetics, the noise of multimedia bombardment on the senses. The attempt to rise above the age of market supplied media chaos by embodying the spectacle. By becoming the cartoon. By personifying the deification of the consumer product as object of worship.
The ritualistic embodiment of the simulacrum as merit based fame determinant. The need to mimetically refract the shared signifiers of meaning and value to achieve self-worth.
A confused, disjointed, overly stimulated masses of consumers. A crisis of morality, a breakdown of spirituality in the age of “do you want the Lamborghini? You’ll get the Lamborghini!” Gatorized aesthetics.
The unsatisfying club going chase. The endless pursuit of glitter without depth. Popped collars meant to amplify the face into store bought product. To rise above the everyday and become human commercials, walking billboards of product-as-identification reinforcing the paradigm of conquest. The douche as frontiersman, as conquering cowboy, of empowered Manifest Destiny achiever within the consumer culture media age.
And so I sit back on a Saturday, and ponder the hott and the douche, locked in permanent gender transmogrification, and I muse into my alcoholic afternoon with the boozy detachment of boobie bouncing ramifications.
I do what I can.
I offer you a “Where’s Waldouche?”
Because within this dialectic of boob and choad, of metrosexual forehead greased douche-face and the object of his acquisition, the boundaries of society begin to break down, crack and reveal themselves.
And we have Red Bull inspired Revelation: redbullation.
And boobies.
