Ties McJohnson and Amazon Kelly Vote for Gynochin
After deep consideration, and extensive use of Boolean field mathematics, Ties McJohnson and Amazon Kelly cast their votes.
And whaddaya know?
It was a tie.
Thank you.
I will be here all week.
Sample the meat specialty on the menu.
And be sure to leave a gratuity for your servant class assistant.
Gynochin Returns!
HCwDB legend and 2011 Douchebag of the Year Gynochin.
Still out there.
Still with douche-chin.
Still dressing up to impress Kathy Hott with his fertile gum lines.
Mayhap the Gynochin makes our hallowed Hall of Scrote?
The hot chick of Rhea speaks for her cuddle bottom. And the run of doucheyness near incredibly sexy hot chicks speaks for itself.
And then there’s this.
What say you?
Benzino Takes a Break From Being a Heaping Asspimple
Sure it looks effortless.
But being a Heaping Asspimple in presence of sexy superhotties takes hard work, dedication to craft, and a commitment to superlative scrotewankery.
Every so often, a ‘bag legend deserves a break.
A chance to unwind, acting only as an average choadmunch would.
To paraphrase some forgotten Lilith Fair singer-songwriter of the musically deadened 1990s, What if Douchebag Was One of Us? If you will.
And so Benzino carries on, ever onward, until, like Coleridge once waxed poetic, the dead seagull falls.
Ties McJohnson Hits on Amazon Kelly
Pop Quiz: Name the brand of bodyspray that Ties McJohnson likes to apply before:
a) the sexy times
b) His 12am-8am shift working the grease fryer at the Fry Shack
c) asking his parents for some bro time spending cash
d) family counseling services
e) bed
Bonus points: Find the broken peen carefully hidden in Ties McJohnson’s spandex shorts
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.
