Monday, April 4, 2016

Feely Popsicles

    The internet feels very pixel-crisp right now.

    Sharp images and even pointier narratives cavort like serial hussies, elevating big ideas for the benefit of all shared mankinds.

    It’s a pulse of gamified glitz, the opening shot in a spectacular mass unfurlment of spirit.

    Also: increasingly meaningless.

    I am reminded of the moment in every lock-in reality show where the contestants announce their arrival in a flash of pre-prepared grandeur.

    Every tooth gleams, every hairdo swishes, every cleavage ejaculates — all before a single gratuitously unbearable word has been uttered.

    This persists for any number of self-reincarnating agonies, till the squeak of anal contraction threatens to rip all muscles from spines in an orgy of post-splurge awkwardness.

    Then everyone gets cagey, edgy.

    That’s probably where we’re at with the internet right now.

    So — what next?

    2020 looms, and with it, all manner of unflaunty fluffing around.

    Assuming it doesn’t take everyone forever to work out who sleeps where, the main event of the “first night in the house” happens right here.

    As masks are peeled back to the skimpies, the twin behemoths of SNORING and FARTING stomp their way closer to their inevitable exit holes.

    Now comes fitful sleep — and the exercise of isometric rictus.

    Millennial feely popsicles will almost certainly retract deep into flesh, their antennae probes replaced with embarrassing wisps of gas and sound waves only an elephant seal could interpret.

    Playtime soon gonna be over, kittens.

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