...and then he woke up
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Monday, April 23, 2018
Boom Siss Boom Siss
boom siss boom siss boom siss boom siss…
eeehhh eeehhh ehhhh — bah bah bah — eeehhh eeehhh eeehhh — bah bah bah —
boom siss boom siss boom siss boom siss…
eeehhh eeehhh ehhhh — bah bah bah — eeehhh eeehhh eeehhh — bah bah bah —
The ephemeral pulsing life beat of our collective past, once horrific in its repetitive drone and emblematic of the lost specter of meaning, now receding in a haze of otherness. As our memory shifts and grows more distant. From factual present to recent past. And then again. Into the distance.
Abstraction. And then, once again, another shift to only the vaguest sliver, the barest of thread left to tie us to what was once the real and present now rendered blurry, foreign. We say goodbye to that which we once abhorred but now we recall with nostalgia tinged affection and bemusement. What once horrified. Once a toxic smell of withered sweatsock recontextualized as the simple signifier of a more innocent and ultimately harmless memory. What once was and can never be again. Dayenu.
Thursday, November 10, 2016Apocalypse ‘Bag
And so the nightmare is real.
Like some crusty psychological remnant from the deepest darkest orbs of the inner ear crawling outward, Trek II style, to reveal itself.
All is not as it appeared to be in the progression narrative we call the future.
The malignant forces of systemic malaise have arrived to writ their vengeance, to suck the last dregs of humanity from the decaying plastic corpses of the once human and soulful.
Ten years ago I started Hot Chicks with Douchebags to mock the accelerated development of exaggerated hyper-masculinity. I hoped to highlight the absurdities of performing “maleness” by showing what it had really become: a toxic spectacle brought about by the increasing emphasis on visual stimulation in the internet age.
Faced with scrambling of traditional gender roles and a growing multicultural world, I watched in horror as young, suburban white men of privilege were rendered apathetic and clueless by self-indulgent crap parenting, too much disposable income, and an ethos of amoral narcissism. The pleasures of Cheetos and Chill polluted and infected the mind, replaced by primal sexual urges masquerading as identity. No surprise that these drifting males, devoid of ethos and purpose, took to pectorial inflating, tribal tattooing, ‘roidally pumping, greasy brand name oiling, orange tanning, ab shaving, crusty hair spiking, ridiculous facial fung curating, and overpriced t-shirt purchasing lunacy.
I saw this corrosion spreading like choadwanks off the shoulder of Orion. Identity lost. Like beads of sweat underneath a spray-tan rain.
It had to be mocked. Ridiculed. As Foucault taught us, only humiliation can break through the constructed prism of false consciousness and really stupid doucheface.
You elected to join me. And for years, there was push-back. Here at HCwDB we mocked thousands of ‘bags, choads, scrotes and Bleeths that transformed themselves into cartoon paper tiger road warriors and spectacles.
Their con was absurdist theater and brand name spectacle. Their bodies were their stage. And like some toilet-paper creature brought to life from 1970s-era hippie dance troupe Mummenshantz, they unspooled into nothingness.
From unholy groin tendons to sheeny shades of orange to inflatable cloud-men that barely look human to stupid tatts and sideways neck-glasses , the stench of modern douchebaggery was a product of the digital media carnival.
All in the hopes of seducing and acquiring the mass media established objet d’art: the hot chick.
Her role was nothing more than objectified item of acquisition. Proof of natural selection. Evidence of self worth.
I named this corporate enhanced, psychologically polluted, culturally toxic mating ritual, “douchebaggery.” A word I plucked from obscure insult-land because I needed a term to capture the toxic transformation of the self into the cartoon. A word to describe this cultural insanity in all its atrociousness. Surreal efforts and externalization of value that previously privileged suburban masculinity had undertaken to make up for their loss of assumed cultural birthright.
For ten years, I thought we were winning the war.
And then the douchebags struck back. Their primal scream took collective form. And here we stand. As witness to the victorious summoning of their most absurdist douche Svengali.
And so enter President Orange Buffoon.
Ridiculed on HCwDB as early as 2009 as the personification of hottie/douchebaggery pollution in all its amoral narcissism. Then codified with a Douchebag of the Month in 2011.
That was five years ago.
We thought we’d won. We thought he was a crimson turd born from reality television and cartoonish lunacy. A silly-string piece of pop culture flotsam.
Boy howdy were we wrong.
HCwDB’s goal was to never underestimate the toxic dangers of raging white, masculine privilege when threatened or wounded. And yet it happened.
Turns out it was but one small step from fist pumping Vegas Red Bull choadwanks to a festering global implosion led by an orange rhesus monkey. And so here we are. The douchebags are triumphant. Electing the One Douche to ‘Bag Them All. An amoral, whiny man-child fascist clown has become their King.
The douchebags have won.
We did not mock hard enough.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013Antoine is living the dream…
…and then his phone alarm went off. Time for the Taco Bell graveyard shift…
