"In what fucked up universe would Florida assume supremacy over the entire earth?!" Was one of the more frequent questions running through the minds of those who by impudence or insolence were put to the alligator guillotine. There were other questions to be sure, such as "Am I living in a teen's spiteful LiveJournal post right now?" or "Didn't I move into a gated community to avoid this sort of thing?", but none so poignant as the first. The answers to the question of the soon-to-be-beheaded and the many more cranially privileged who came under the yolk of Florida arise from the land itself. Not from its geography, natural resources, or any other such rhetorical contrivance of the historian, but from a strange happenstance, a confluence of the mystical and the chemical, a fate bound to the swamp.
Florida's reputation during the opening decades of the 21st century was one of cultural isolation and endemic fucked-up-ness. An autobahn of auto-tuned cannibals, criminals, cranks, geriatrics and mock Civil War generals all bracketed by a fleet of mobile meth labs on the ground and a Camusian sun above. Its population was disparate and combative, a patchwork of Walgreen's parking lot refugees plagued by poor governance and a steady importation of madness. From North Korea to South Jersey, Florida bore an infamy as endless as the Ever Glades. One woman even joked that Florida was Australia's Australia. However, much like Carrie, Florida was about to turn the prom of 21st century life into a blazing inferno of plastic flamingos.
The year 2023 began just as any other with corporations colluding and butt fucking their way through our political institutions and into our hearts. Of greatest significance to the Florida Renaissance was the creation of the world's largest Xanax factory on the shores of lake Okeechobee. Tax payer funded and granted diplomatic immunity by Richelle Scott, the then governor of Florida and deranged offspring of former governor and Putin wannabe Rick Scott, the Xanax factory opened amid a series of mysterious deaths and a surfeit of Maroon 5 cover bands. Despite these ill omens and the presence of an impenetrable miasma surrounding the factory, few cared to investigate. If you've got leprosy, you probably don't care if you have scabies. Then, as if the land itself just got a prescription from a corrupt doctor, Florida swallowed the Xanax factory.
Sinkholes are a common occurrence in America's choad, but this one was all together startling. The Xanax factory (which was said to contain enough Alprazolam to sedate both Robin Williams and the Sun) sank instantaneously to an uncharted abyssal depth, drawing down with it the entire Okeechobee watershed and creating an interminable whirlpool at it's center. This redneck Charybdis abided no exploration being both too turbulent and too toxic. Concerns about it's growing girth and the contamination of the water supply were diverted by Richelle Scott's state-wide, cross-promotional music fest, Dubstep Stairway to 7-11, that sought to unite classic rock, dubstep, and jam bands for the dual purpose of snacking and amending the state constitution to allow corporations to adopt the adult population. With the populace of Florida awaiting the "drop", the land of Florida braced itself for the up-welling.
Changes were subtle at first. Native species began to grow larger than their normal size. The water turned a pharmaceutical blue. And the disposition of Floridians began to shift from dissociation and violence to uncommon, Dude-like chillness. The fabled institutions of old Florida, namely pill mills and bath salts mines, were slowly abandoned and converted to community recreation centers frequented by a zealous populace willing both to break dance and kill for their beloved institutions. Unnoticed by the rest of the nation, Florida underwent a metamorphosis that not even the hirsute love child of Ovid and Kafka could have imagined.
Of course, all would have been for nothing were it not for the indefatigable will of a woman. Cassandra Krusaphos was an alligator wrestler and a poet scrapping by in Tampa whilst buffeted by the injunctions to ambition all persons mired in their mid-twenties must endure. Bonded to Florida by love and history, she had long lamented it's self castration and envisioned an empire forged in the latent madness of the swamp. A cunning observer of the changes brought about by the Xanax whirlpool, Cassandra was perhaps the only one capable of wrestling the gator of history and prying open it's jaws...or butthole.
Cassandra began small by organizing disaffected people into creative collectives and promulgating poems proclaiming a new age...but this time without Enya. Her drive for demagoguery was matched by her insight for industry through which she realized the potential of her savage surroundings. Harnessing the mutations of natural species, Cassandra domesticated the now Bruce Vilanch sized Green Anole turning it into both work horse and cattle. Lizard meat became so popular that she spawned a chain of family-oriented restaurants called "Reptards" modeled after Ted Turner's buffalo grill (incidentally, Cassandra would later feed Ted Turner to her lizards). With a fleet of giant reptiles and cult of uninhibited artists, Cassandra founded her imperial city, Xanoplis, upon the banks of the benzo abyss. Cassandra, the poet queen and Marxist dino-rider, then set her sights upon Tallahassee.
Mounted upon a lizard and armed with the totally marketable skills of a Lit degree from a liberal arts college, Cassandra and her cohorts besieged the Wet 'n Wild water-park turned governor's palace in Tallahassee slaughtering politicians, lobbyists, and Richelle Scott. The coup was met with adulation by the public as Cassandra stood atop the pee and band aid filled rubble holding the head of the former governess. In a speech that would later be called "a 69th wave rad fem revision of the Gettysburg Address on shabu" Cassandra extolled the virtues of Florida and asserted its independence from the United States. Though West Virginia and New Jersey protested claiming that they would become the de facto laughing stocks of the US, the majority were in support of the defection. Thus Florida became a free nation and so embarked upon an era of political and cultural dominance that would change the world forever....
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Take Me (To Your Pop Icon)!
For a long time they watched from afar, then the first came among us citing our pop culture like a tween. Though some were disturbed by the casual nature of our first contact, most were disarmed. The ease with which this alien droned on about Kanye's artistry or the merits of Lena Dunham's dialogue charmed us. Before humanity had a chance to blink we were gushing over fashion gaffes and speculating on the frequency of Jar Jar Binks appearances in the new Star Wars movies with this visitor. What had seemed the greatest revelation in human history quickly devolved into a series of BuzzFeed articles about celebrity taint length. This, however, was but the beginning of our demise.
The alien that first revealed itself to us seemed not so much reticent about itself and its race as disinterested. Any queries regarding its origin, technology, or personal life were met with a yawn or deflected toward spoilers and gossip. Those stalwart enough to resist engaging in the latter found themselves fleeing form the possibility of the former, lest the pristine flower of The Bachelorette finale be sullied by the fat cock of chatty coworkers. See no spoilers, hear no spoilers, speak no spoilers. Attempts to capture and interrogate the alien also failed. Despite the efforts of the bloated military industrial complex, the alien eluded apprehension by use of some mode of teleportation. Whenever confronted the alien would simply disappear, only to re-materialize on the most desperate of daytime talk shows to pontificate on the veracity of Nicki Minaj's breasts. Bustier Verite.
Through the first six months of our extraterrestrial affair we knew but three things: The alien's name was Yhjiyal, but it insisted on being called Mark after Mark Wahlberg (Yhjiyal considered Mark Wahlberg to be the apex of our culture, an actor equal parts tragic and comic who could at once remove the grave mask of drama and substitute it for the funky bucket hat and whitey tighties of 90's kitsch). Secondly, that Mark and his species came from the star system HD 12661. And finally, that his race, the Wndghat, had been observing us for thousands of years, but only began to take real interest in human society upon the release of Jurassic Park (at which point many young Wndghatians decided to take up paleontology). Ever since they had been voraciously consuming our culture like Artie Lang at a heroine and hot dog buffet.
The initial fascination with the alien quickly passed into a self-absorbed complacency. Whether it was our inability to ascertain any information about Mark and his people or our own narcissism, it is hard to say. Regardless, before long the sight of Mark and Paula Dean double-teaming a butter sculpture of a human centipede formed from the Jonas Brothers was considered almost passe. Mark had become a household name, a powerful critic, an insightful pundit, and a maven of memes. Although we had willingly curled up with Mark on the bear skin rug of pop culture, there was still some undisclosed discomfort, as if someone had farted during sex, but both parties were unsure of who to blame. Not as much on the part of humanity, which had been gorging on its own shit for years, but rather from Mark who, despite his acceptance, continued to look warily at the stars.
Mark's anxiety should well have been ours. Not a year into Mark's residency another alien showed up, this one too insisting that it be called Mark (again after Mark Wahlberg). The homecoming of Mark and Mark, however, was less inappropriately drunk family reunion and more inadvertently catching your new roommate masturbating. Their televised get-together played out like a reality TV show reunion between the two cast members who never interacted in the first place. Mark was not at all the gregarious penis-puppeteer of the original Mark, but much more the ivory tower academic. This new Mark expounded theories of pop culture in dense tomes using Hegelian dialectic to bridge G-Funk, Mumblecore, and Youtube cringe porn. Adopted by sophisticates, intellectuals, and armchair armchair dealers alike, Mark found himself rubbing his fuzzy proboscis with the elbows of earth's intelligentsia, namely Noam Chomsky and the corpse of William F. Buckley.
The priapic choad of humanity was once again chubbed up by Mark's interest in our pop culture and the convenient dichotomy of Mark and Mark. We, however, were about to get real flaccid. During one of Mark 1's routine appearances on Oprah another delegation of Wndghatians beamed down, prompting Oprah to give each and every one of them a speaking opportunity on her show. As an extraterrestrial ombudswoman, Oprah spoon fed humanity one terrifying truth after another. First that, despite mounting confusion, every Wndghatian demanded to be called Mark or occasionally Marky (once again after Mark Wahlberg). Second that all these Marks were individuals united seemingly by their avaricious desire for human pop culture alone. Third that their consumption of our pop culture had long since corrupted their own society, creating a virtual re-run of human culture on their own planet. And finally that the clenched ass of their home world, which up till now had merely sharted upon the toilet of the earth, was about to pee out of its own butt.
The gravitas of a diarrhea metaphor would, of course, be lost were in not for the presence of some serious butt mud and it was thus that humanity began to understand its fate. Soon after the first wave of aliens arrived, a correlation was established between their company and an increasing urge by humans to take their talents to South Beach. As Marks' numbers swelled so did our sewers. A coalition of international scientists began to study the phenomenon, and, after a few scheisse set-backs and merde mulligans, they discovered that Mark's respiration did indeed produce a laxative compound. Despite this gastrointestinal grievance, humans were for the most part unperturbed by the influx of aliens. If anything we were tickled by Mark's near seamless integration into our society as were gripped and ripped on our porcelain thrones. Marks the world over were fronting ska bands, taking selfies, and making distasteful Youtube comments. Yet, not all were so peachy keen with these dingle berries.
Strangely enough, the first signs of dissent came from the original Mark and his confidant Oprah. Together this tag team started Ric Flair strutting all over the "colonization" of earth. With Oprah as his mouthpiece, Mark defamed his alien comrades calling them King Leopolds in Kesha's clothing. Not only were the Marks causing serious logistical and environmental problems by inducing humanity to spew more shit than Dan Brown, but they were also appropriating the pop culture they so coveted and in the process making it somehow more idiotic and insipid. The "golden age" of television was replaced by the "grey age" wherein alien executives green-lit everything from a True Blood / Dads crossover to an entire universe of Dace Moms spin-offs. All the while making sure to cast Mark Wahlberg in every conceivable role. Oprah and Mark's vituperative criticism was almost entirely ignored, however, failing even to generate a sub-Reddit dedicated to the cause. Ostracized and discredited, they sat in front of a live studio audience and committed seppuku on air.
Glued to iPads and toilet seats, humanity hash-tagged and added zany filters between wipes and swipes as the world crumpled around them. The environment had literally gone to shit with clogged aquifers and rising brown sea levels. Society too had ceased to function. Weak from shitting and sick from eating their own shit, humans became incapable of any action not involving watching a screen. Meanwhile the Marks established themselves as a cultural over-class, producing nearly all our pop culture by wringing out the dried husk of our former creativity. Happily humanity watched the increasingly derivative facsimiles rendered by these pop overlords while the earth sank beneath a sea of shit. By 2020 the amount of arable land hand been reduced by 95% and the human population was decimated. Cramped and bored, the Marks left taking with them Mark Wahlberg to act as their leader. Without the creative faculties or production facilities to make movies or music, the few remaining humans finally got off their toilets, banded together, and watched Mad Max triple features.
The alien that first revealed itself to us seemed not so much reticent about itself and its race as disinterested. Any queries regarding its origin, technology, or personal life were met with a yawn or deflected toward spoilers and gossip. Those stalwart enough to resist engaging in the latter found themselves fleeing form the possibility of the former, lest the pristine flower of The Bachelorette finale be sullied by the fat cock of chatty coworkers. See no spoilers, hear no spoilers, speak no spoilers. Attempts to capture and interrogate the alien also failed. Despite the efforts of the bloated military industrial complex, the alien eluded apprehension by use of some mode of teleportation. Whenever confronted the alien would simply disappear, only to re-materialize on the most desperate of daytime talk shows to pontificate on the veracity of Nicki Minaj's breasts. Bustier Verite.
Through the first six months of our extraterrestrial affair we knew but three things: The alien's name was Yhjiyal, but it insisted on being called Mark after Mark Wahlberg (Yhjiyal considered Mark Wahlberg to be the apex of our culture, an actor equal parts tragic and comic who could at once remove the grave mask of drama and substitute it for the funky bucket hat and whitey tighties of 90's kitsch). Secondly, that Mark and his species came from the star system HD 12661. And finally, that his race, the Wndghat, had been observing us for thousands of years, but only began to take real interest in human society upon the release of Jurassic Park (at which point many young Wndghatians decided to take up paleontology). Ever since they had been voraciously consuming our culture like Artie Lang at a heroine and hot dog buffet.
The initial fascination with the alien quickly passed into a self-absorbed complacency. Whether it was our inability to ascertain any information about Mark and his people or our own narcissism, it is hard to say. Regardless, before long the sight of Mark and Paula Dean double-teaming a butter sculpture of a human centipede formed from the Jonas Brothers was considered almost passe. Mark had become a household name, a powerful critic, an insightful pundit, and a maven of memes. Although we had willingly curled up with Mark on the bear skin rug of pop culture, there was still some undisclosed discomfort, as if someone had farted during sex, but both parties were unsure of who to blame. Not as much on the part of humanity, which had been gorging on its own shit for years, but rather from Mark who, despite his acceptance, continued to look warily at the stars.
Mark's anxiety should well have been ours. Not a year into Mark's residency another alien showed up, this one too insisting that it be called Mark (again after Mark Wahlberg). The homecoming of Mark and Mark, however, was less inappropriately drunk family reunion and more inadvertently catching your new roommate masturbating. Their televised get-together played out like a reality TV show reunion between the two cast members who never interacted in the first place. Mark was not at all the gregarious penis-puppeteer of the original Mark, but much more the ivory tower academic. This new Mark expounded theories of pop culture in dense tomes using Hegelian dialectic to bridge G-Funk, Mumblecore, and Youtube cringe porn. Adopted by sophisticates, intellectuals, and armchair armchair dealers alike, Mark found himself rubbing his fuzzy proboscis with the elbows of earth's intelligentsia, namely Noam Chomsky and the corpse of William F. Buckley.
The priapic choad of humanity was once again chubbed up by Mark's interest in our pop culture and the convenient dichotomy of Mark and Mark. We, however, were about to get real flaccid. During one of Mark 1's routine appearances on Oprah another delegation of Wndghatians beamed down, prompting Oprah to give each and every one of them a speaking opportunity on her show. As an extraterrestrial ombudswoman, Oprah spoon fed humanity one terrifying truth after another. First that, despite mounting confusion, every Wndghatian demanded to be called Mark or occasionally Marky (once again after Mark Wahlberg). Second that all these Marks were individuals united seemingly by their avaricious desire for human pop culture alone. Third that their consumption of our pop culture had long since corrupted their own society, creating a virtual re-run of human culture on their own planet. And finally that the clenched ass of their home world, which up till now had merely sharted upon the toilet of the earth, was about to pee out of its own butt.
The gravitas of a diarrhea metaphor would, of course, be lost were in not for the presence of some serious butt mud and it was thus that humanity began to understand its fate. Soon after the first wave of aliens arrived, a correlation was established between their company and an increasing urge by humans to take their talents to South Beach. As Marks' numbers swelled so did our sewers. A coalition of international scientists began to study the phenomenon, and, after a few scheisse set-backs and merde mulligans, they discovered that Mark's respiration did indeed produce a laxative compound. Despite this gastrointestinal grievance, humans were for the most part unperturbed by the influx of aliens. If anything we were tickled by Mark's near seamless integration into our society as were gripped and ripped on our porcelain thrones. Marks the world over were fronting ska bands, taking selfies, and making distasteful Youtube comments. Yet, not all were so peachy keen with these dingle berries.
Strangely enough, the first signs of dissent came from the original Mark and his confidant Oprah. Together this tag team started Ric Flair strutting all over the "colonization" of earth. With Oprah as his mouthpiece, Mark defamed his alien comrades calling them King Leopolds in Kesha's clothing. Not only were the Marks causing serious logistical and environmental problems by inducing humanity to spew more shit than Dan Brown, but they were also appropriating the pop culture they so coveted and in the process making it somehow more idiotic and insipid. The "golden age" of television was replaced by the "grey age" wherein alien executives green-lit everything from a True Blood / Dads crossover to an entire universe of Dace Moms spin-offs. All the while making sure to cast Mark Wahlberg in every conceivable role. Oprah and Mark's vituperative criticism was almost entirely ignored, however, failing even to generate a sub-Reddit dedicated to the cause. Ostracized and discredited, they sat in front of a live studio audience and committed seppuku on air.
Glued to iPads and toilet seats, humanity hash-tagged and added zany filters between wipes and swipes as the world crumpled around them. The environment had literally gone to shit with clogged aquifers and rising brown sea levels. Society too had ceased to function. Weak from shitting and sick from eating their own shit, humans became incapable of any action not involving watching a screen. Meanwhile the Marks established themselves as a cultural over-class, producing nearly all our pop culture by wringing out the dried husk of our former creativity. Happily humanity watched the increasingly derivative facsimiles rendered by these pop overlords while the earth sank beneath a sea of shit. By 2020 the amount of arable land hand been reduced by 95% and the human population was decimated. Cramped and bored, the Marks left taking with them Mark Wahlberg to act as their leader. Without the creative faculties or production facilities to make movies or music, the few remaining humans finally got off their toilets, banded together, and watched Mad Max triple features.
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