Sunday Musings: Melon Butt
It’s a lazy Sunday during this three day weekend for your humble narrator of douchetrology, The DB1. I scratch myself. I look at Melon Butt. And I scratch myself some more.
I sip cheap alcohol, munch on an extra-large bowl of Corn Pops, and consider the Bleeth. Those women of good breeding and firm perkage who somehow attract towards the Douche Fly.
Like Melon Butt here, and her posse of insectified scrotesects.
I think about what it means to be a scrotesect. How the male seeks to use his body as an eroticized gender inversion. Douche as “Hot Chick,” “prettified” by product, to confuse Hot Chick into wanting Douche. Eroticism imbedded in product. Armani/Exchange the golden calf of so many spiritual desert walkabouts. So many trips into the digital echo chamber of product enhanced validation. So many graspings at the elusive reaffirmation of the body using corporate brand as substitute for self.
And then Melon Butt speaks to me.
Melon Butt reorients the chaotic swirl of simulation, of pixelated echo, of digital performance as substitute for the authentic, into a singularity of focus. If Melon Butt could talk, it would say, “The real still exists. It exists in my curvy melon butt.”
And I hold onto Melon Butt as the guiding sherpa amongst the douchal untether that informs the age of mass media.
Which is a grandiloquent way of saying I’d knead Melon Butt like sparkling neon play-doh in the bouncing moonwalks of blacklit rubber padded cells of eros. For it is tasty. And it is real.
The rest may be digitized white noise. But Melon Butt is real.
