Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Marty Crotchensack Hits the Community College Pool Area

Supple Pamela and Giggle Kelly are bemused by Marty’s K-Mart bling as they take a break from majoring in pre-med. Or is it pre-law?

Bonus points to anyone who can identify the flying alien spacecraft bong in the lower right of the pic.

Banksy? Is that you?

And then this happened

Shark hats.

It’s like telling the world you’re “gangster,” only instead of gangster, it’s “five year old boy into sharks.”

Nicole has the hard meth eyes of short term love and long term childrearing without a feasible source of income.

Art That Dares to Criticize

This is Lorde.

She’s a singer from New Zealand whom you’ve probably heard of. Usually with the caveat, “sixteen year old.” And that is noteworthy, I suppose. But not as noteworthy as her music.

Lorde currently has the number one song in the country with Royals, a stripped-down bluesy critique of the fetishization of bling and Cristal sipping fantasy life.

It’s a masterpiece of a pop song hidden in a simple, hypnotic anti-dance mix. Musically appealing at the same time it sneakily subverts the requisite formal expectations of the genre it usurps.

Gone are the dubstep bass drops and over-sampled drum tracks of our Miley Cyrus Skrillex produced artifical landscape. Instead we receive the simple snapping of the fingers. This is pop music as rejection rather than celebration. Criticism rather than inclusion.

You might even say Lorde is her own form of ‘bag huntress.

The song’s simple refrain dispenses with the generic tropes of overproduced pablum and replace it with a simple clarion truth call — the voice. The pounding dance-track tribal thumps of the mass media machine gives way to the vocal harmonies of resignation and acceptance.

The dream is bullshit. The party doesn’t exist.

Reversing the economic hierarchy of mass-produced Katy Perry Barbiedoms, Lorde talks up, rather than down. The pop song as audience voice. All this in the form of a pop hit. All this from within the machine itself.

And so truth to power climbs the pop charts.

And a “sixteen year old” slays the beast.

Analog reality slays the digital fraud. Left in its wake is a simple critique. The Ghosts of Britney grab money by selling ideal beauty and dreamland nightscapes of limousines and champagne. All while taking money from the poor wannabes who will never, ever drink from that fantasy chalice.

But Lorde is also a very young woman. So while I often pollute our cultural discourse with my own reduction of ladies into “hot chicks,” I will refrain from commenting on Lorde’s hottness. Suffice to say, 2015 will be a very good year. Not only for hottness. But also for talent.

But I come here not to discuss Lorde’s future hottness. I come here to discuss the recent kerfuffle, and yeah I just said kerfuffle, that broke out when Lorde criticized pop starlet Selena Gomez for promoting a woman-as-sex-object fantasy via her song, “Come & Get It”.

Lorde commented in an interview in Rolling Stone:

“I love pop music on a sonic level, but I’m a feminist and the theme of her song ‘Come & Get It,’ is when you’re ready come and get it from me.. I’m sick of women being portrayed this way.”

Lorde was immediately and mercilessly mocked for daring to point out how the starlet machine sells young female singers as sex objects. The idiotic Gomez replied:

“I think she is super talented and I think it’s awesome. But I think at the same time that feminism and that specific thing is very sensitive because in my opinion it’s not feminism if you’re tearing down another artist.”

The stupidity. It burns.

What clueless clowns like Gomez don’t understand is that real art criticizes. Real art challenges. Overturns. Mocks. Disturbs the status quo.

Real art forces us to think about our suppositions. Our assumptions. About gender. About sexuality. About race. About class. About life.

What genericlowns like Miley Cyrus and Selena Gomez produce is not art, it is product. To call them “artists” is to vomit in Duchamp’s urinal. Actually, no. Strike that. Vomiting in Duchamp’s urinal would be the first artistic gesture that Selena Gomez ever made, whether or not she fluffed James Franco in a Harmony Korine film.

To her credit, Lorde refused to issue the standard mea culpa forced on celebrities who dare to rock the media boat. It takes a 16 year old girl to call bullshit on the electric whore show.

And it’s about time.

———

TL;DR: I like Lorde because she’s willing to criticize the underlying assumptions of contemporary popular media.

Andrew is Not the Father

She’s not one hundred.

She’s not two hundred.

She’s five thousand.

Shel Selfiestein

Funny, I was just speaking of black and white bathroom selfies featuring pumped up inflatatool uberbros and personal trainer gum snapping hotts at my Bum Wine Anonymous meeting the other day.

And then this.

It’s, like, karmatic kismet or something.

Friday Thoughts and Links

May your weekend pass like a photobombing Warren Beatty Bro in presence of a scaled down Patsy Kensit party hott and her sexy Malaysian friend at a creepy wedding in Sheboygan.

Sadly, as I learned the other day when I queried a room full of hott appreciators, no one knows who Patsy Kensit is anymore. This makes your humb narrs sad. As a fallow teenager, I weeped tears of action-adventure sadness when Kensit was forced to die as part of Riggs’s grieving process in Lethal Weapon 2.

It broke my Hebraic heart that this lithe Aryan suckle hott with the alpaca-like overbite would need to die so an alcoholic anti-Semite could quell the crazy for an hour or two.

So here’s to you, Patsy Kensit.

You may have married one of the douchiest flash-in-the-pan British rock stars of all time and consigned yourself to a 1990s Trivial Pursuit card for eternity. But I still poke your proddle.

Here’s yer links:

Your HCwDB Buy Some Shit To Support the Site Link of the Week: What HC1 will ideally be wearing on Halloween. What HC1 will actually be wearing on Halloween.

In Soviet Union, guitar play hot chick.

The Griecobag himself, source virus of the entire douche plague, Richard Grieco posted his latest artwork to Facebook. Here it is: Dawn of the Wolf. You’re welcome.

Internet sensation and Semitic Boobie Hottie Suckle Thigh Meytal Cohen. Still out there. Still without a discernible form of income.

When they ask you about the 1980s, tell them this.

Want proof we’re winning the war on douchebaggery? Victory!

The latest Chinese beach trend: Face-kini.

Here’s 38 images of Brechtian genius.

Okay. Nuff that. For those of you in the winter climates as it grows colder:

Ocean Peartacular

Wave butt.

Friday Haiku

Mia said “Good night;

I’m feeling a little horse…”

…I’ll be here all week…

Donkey Douche out

for a night on the town

forgets people mask

— Chris in ‘Baghdad

Girls call him “Mister

Trifecta”. Horse face, rough ride,

finishes real quick

— Magnum Douche P. I.

Unclear on concept:

Save a horse, ride a douchebag?

Cowboys sing the blues.

— Charles Douchewin

When Orwell wrote “Two

legs good, four legs bad” he could

never thought of this.

— Dr. Bunsen HoneyDouche

PCP. It’s not

Just for breakfast anymore

She rides the pony.

— The Reverend Chad Kroeger

Sarah Jessica

Parker enters club. This guy

says “hey sis, what’s up?”

— Magnum Douche P.I.

Herspters

Herpsters with stupid ‘staches.

A plague on Los Angeles’s Silverlake area for the past ten years.

Ther is only one ‘stache that is forever exempt from mock. It is The Holy Stache of Oates.

The rest are mere pretenders to the throne.

Hawktoberfest

The ‘Hawk soars.

The ‘Hawk sores?

Like an eagle.

Asian David Arquette Parties Like A Rock Star

There’s David Arquette.

And then there’s Asian David Arquette.

And somewhere in the middle, there’s a cinnabon.