An adoring public re-unites with a tangential genius of hyper-transitional artistry
( where the fuck has our hero been all this time if not in jail or rehab?! )
Bonjour mes amis,
The general demeanor of pathological narcissism exhibited by many starving artist types represents an appalling trend in modern society where teens, tweens, twenty-somethings, thirty-nothings, and so on act as though they're living the bohemian dream while at the same time walking around with a self-congratulatory sense of entitlement about them. The two don't fit. In fact, they contradict each other and enable the individual to thrive in a hastily constructed fantasy world where success arrives without any physical effort or mental exertion on their part.
Behind the rose colored lenses these dick sucking shitfucks perceive through that they call reality actively withers away toward a monotonous routine of debt, dis-ease, and depression. Don't bother treating these un-evolved hairless monkeys politely or as anything other than malignant social tumors.
Self-deceiving hypocrites incapable of improvisational augury in adjusting their pleasure strategy to one that possess some form of coping mechanism. Other than the panic-driven whining, sobbing, help me someone meltdowns they're currently executing. These horse clits will no longer be pandered to, pity-fucked, or paid to slouch.
More inexplicably witless, self-styled hack writers arriving on the scene just in time to update their non-prescription eye-wear to this weeks most popular frames, whip out their laptops in a crowded franchise coffee bar to revise some of the more questionable dialogue in their latest screenplay or (depending on the level of delusional psychosis involved here) rehearse their Pulitzer prize winning acceptance speech even though they've yet to even publish a fucking word on paper thus far.
Due to the remedial agency of mass syndication and the technological misfortune of subscription feeds, we'll find ourselves unable to escape even the briefest, most cursory synopsis of their vapid yammering. These bastard utilities renders us almost as incapable of altering our own visual focus as Malcom McDowell's character Alex was in the infamous bound to a chair with his eye-lids fastened open scene in Stanley Kubrick's immortal film adaptation of A Clockwork Orange.
Many of us will be cowering in relative quiescence offline as they vomit forth overflowing buckets full of indigestible rehashed bandwidth-gorging fast-food for thought. Which I'm guessing they expect us to just lightly season, drown in worse-to-share sauce, and then shove down our already congested esophageal pipelines in order to cram even more shit down our necks that ends up clogging our intestines with cancerous bio-waste.
Inevitably their influences will set off a chain reaction causing a virtual rampage of facetious free-for-all finger-dancing flatulence whereby several hundred million gullible Oprah-worshipping sheltered suburbanite bitch-asses from here to oblivion will take to serial-publishing their treasure trove of useless thoughts, opinionated attitudorials, and inane verbal diarrhea about their hideous families, sycophantic friends, smothered pets, and invalid feelings.
Eager to ease the egress of estrogen engineers as evidence of emotional entropy? Then start writing an exit into that epileptic Oh Bitch You Worry now as an eulogy for the eclipse of essential expressionism. We've precious little time to grieve and mere seconds to utilize the lachrymal vessel before our tears evaporate.
We'll be expected to endure every single fucking tasteless tendency toward tedious triviality, trite tirades, and torturous testicle-trolling twaddle that these trampy troglodytes type up on their insipid twitters for no foreseeable reason whatsofuckingever. For neither posterity nor idle reflection nor even daily therapeutic purposes, but simply for the spiteful glory of announcing to the world in vivid detail
"I am a giant re-usable store-brand douche who regularly jams an index finger full of icy-hot up my ass as self-flagellating punishment for endlessly procrastinating the management of my own miserable existence"
Somebody please, skip to the part where they're all writhing in agony from having been speared through the mid-section with 13ft lances and then planted in the ground standing erect amidst a vast field of their peers. Preferably something on permanent display which will help contribute to the education of the world's great societies.
Nous prenons ce que nous pouvons quand nous le pouvons,
Mssr. Heyan Auringe