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Friday, July 29, 2011
Real vs. Rill
Catch that? She's RILL, folks.
A BRIGHT SIDE. InstaPunk is not a funny video site. We are here to discuss issues of the day, not giggle like stoned teenagers at YouTubes of other stoned teenagers lighting their crotches on fire, and then their stoned teenage friends put the fire out by stomping on it, thereby stomping on his balls a bunch as well. Maybe I can justify showing this... this with an anecdote.
A few years back, I heard a radio interview with a vomit fetishist (stay with me). The 21st century is the Age of the Unfettered Fetish, and this guy was out and proud as loving to get puked on. Most illuminating part of the freakshow (the only illuminating part. I won't lie, I wasn't in this for the edification) came when vomit dude explained that he had to shut his porn site down because he was only ever contacted by three guys who were into it as well. Not a large market.
Think about this. He wasn't leaving mimeographed bile erotica at truck stops in 1989 and then sitting by the phone crossing his fingers that some like-minded degenerate would call the 900 number in the letterhead. He was on the internet. Civilization's newly-opened steam valve on thousands of years of taboo. Remember when pot was kind of an underground thing? Remember when you could never find yourself accidentally reading an essay by Lyndon LaRouche? Remember when you had never seen even a picture of a dead body, outside of a war textbook? Now I can pull up, within seconds, crime scene photos of Jeff Dahmer's fridge on my phone to settle a bet. And every kink you can think of, even as solely an exercise in grotesqueness, already has a community devoted to it. That's an acknowledged fact. Quantum physics writ large (if you get that pun, I say to you NERRRRRD). Every perfect has joined perverted forces with every other brother in perversion.
Even with that internet, vomit guy only found three other vomit guys. The moral of the story? There are limits to human depravity. Even now.
We see the Paris Hiltons and Amy Winehouses (remember when you had to be good to get into Club 27?) of our popular consciousness and despair for our young girls. Good news: It's not all of them. It's not even a lot of them. Judging by her seven-minute "PSA," Courtney Stodden is the only one like her in her town. Only the dumb girls aspire to plastic tits and thousand dollar wigs for their rat-sized dogs. Yes, one is too many, I agree. But take heart. Humanity's innate desire for self-respect isn't so easily extinguished. Tiny ember of hope.
I'll leave you with our 16-year-old superstar's empower ballad "Don't Put it On Me." That's "On," folks. On. When you're plotting strategies for the coming battles of the next 18 months, take a moment now and then to think of this song. Then think of the young girls you know who aren't "inspiring" [sic] to keep it rill. You'll smile when you realize who's the exception and who's the rule.
P.S. On the off chance there's a gal who doesn't already know: If you're out with your man and he cranes his neck to gawk at a Stodden type who "be poppin"? Dump him. On the spot. Don't wait for an explanaiton. None is possible. Don't burn any emotional calories over him. Shake his hand, say "We're done here," and walk away. Just like that.
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