Moles and Trolls
As we drift off into the orange hues of the fake-tanned sunsets on this Friday eve, I can’t help but think of the words of Val Kilmer in Real Genius: “Moles and trolls, moles and trolls, work, work, work, work, work.”
Indeed, Chris Knight. We work, work, work. But do we stop and smell the boobies? Do we stop and mock the Orange Armani Monsters of our collective Jungian nightmares?
That’s the question.
Excellent emails and submissions this week, some of the best we’ve had in awhile, so a special shout-out to all the ‘bag hunters emailing me every day. You people are doing Vishnu’s Work. It should be a great final Weekly vote on Monday before the next Monthly contest.
I was going to put King D up for the Hall of Scrote but we’ll do that on Monday.
Instead, I sip my red plastic cup of ‘Train, and meditate on the Boobie Hotties, while chanting my Sanscrit mantra, “Challabackgirl” with ritualized rhythmic cadence.
It’s another Friday. Another week of ‘bag mocking and hott lusting successfully completed.
As Antonio Gramsci once remarked, “The challenge of modernity is to live without illusions and without becoming disillusioned.”
We must live without illusions in the blinding waves of white-noise douched up media spectacle we call mass culture. But the boobies can save us from disillusionment. Suckable hottie thighs. They can save us from ourselves.
On that note, I tip my ‘Train to all of you, and head off to pound PBRs at a local watering hole, where I will dream of tiny dancing Purg Hotties in hula skirts and with flowers in their hair. And I will not think of Those Who Just Bang Bitches and Drink. At least not until tomorrow.
