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Victoria’s Secret, the Presidential Election, and How Nepotism Rules the World

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by Guy Walker

Winter is coming. Trees rustle their last stolid leaves. Four-year-olds wear huge mittens, preventing them from Snapchatting their BFF’s. Cats gnaw on mice innards by the fire as old men sip whiskey for months on end. Most of us feel the urgency to enjoy our last shriveling dawns before the Trump presidency, before the mad glistening fascism is enforced by Scott Baio and the Ku Klux Klan. Our only remedy of course, is the night of December 6th, the 2016 Victoria Secret Fashion Show, full of its own gilded hysteria, the hypnotizing seraphims parading down their runway. More than ever, we need something to admire, some over-relished human peacock to idolize on a high stage, as if we were frantically trying to masturbate one last time before being devoured by hyenas.

But the lineup for this year’s show is a depressing list of women nobody ever liked in the first place. Year by year, the models consist more of rich, well-connected family members who have been pasteurized in a vat of polish, their lives just spectacles of birthright. The 2015 VS fashion show debuted Gigi Hadid—daughter of luxury real estate developer, Mohamed Hadid, worth hundreds of millions of dollars, who outmaneuvered Donald Trump in a real estate bid, and Yolanda Hadid, star of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Gigi is walking again in this year’s show, along with her sister, Bella, and BFF Kendall Jenner—who is of course sisters with Kim Kardashian, famous because she was Paris Hilton’s assistant and then sucked a dick on camera.

The annual pageant designates itself “the most watched fashion event in the world,” with 6.6 million viewers last year huddled around their screens, gleaming at what they will never have—the men discussing amongst themselves who they’d like to fuck the most, the women agreeing that the models must all be starved and addicted to cocaine. But as all events do when they are the most watched shows in the world, they turn to nepotism—incestuous love affairs of privilege, orgies of elitism that mimic the history of the royal family.

In a way, it’s much too simple: famous people have friends; and those friends, in turn, become famous. But even worse, they have family. And naturally, family members ride on the backs of their genetically gifted relative, trying to achieve their own momentary immortality, like a secondary character in a television show who happens to get a spinoff. And if the family member isn’t already hot, they certainly have the means to become hot—lip fillers, rhinoplasty, teardrop boob jobs, cheek bone enhancers, and Botox can turn boneless demons into angels of ecstasy. There is nothing that fame and money cannot give us.

The thing is, the Victoria Secret Fashion Show isn’t really a fashion show. There may be a $3 million Fantasy Bra, and the Angels may wear wings around their VS lingerie, but like Bella Hadid confided to Harper’s Bazaar, this event is about “personality”. “It’s about the lingerie, but you also have to keep a smile on your face. You have to interact. It’s a different experience than I am really used to.” Not only did the Hadid sister admit she doesn’t really know how to smile or interact with people, she highlighted the simmering ontological physicalism that viewers so maddeningly crave: we want them to look at us, to flirt using only their smile, to tell us that all of it is possible. It’s what Norman Mailer described of Marilyn Monroe in 1973: “‘Take me,’ said her smile. ‘I’m easy. I’m happy. I’m an angel of sex, you bet.’”

The whole spectacle is a titillating episode of a reality television show. With confetti explosions and live musical performances from Usher or Seal or Lady Gaga, it resembles something close to the season finale of American Idol, or this year’s Republican National Convention—it’s really hard to tell which. It’s about advertising, ratings, celebrity, scandal.

This is of course part and parcel as to why the Hadid sisters and Kendall Jenner are in the fashion show to begin with—we plebeians prefer to root for people we recognize. It’s why Donald Trump won the presidency—name and facial recognition; he had his own reality show where he was the central personality, a platform to popularize his dictatorial fetishism.

Number 28 was the first true reality show—the Dutch precursor to The Real World, which aired a year later. Viewers could now witness the candid drama of people like ourselves, sympathize with their on-camera confessionals, root in some gruesome way for our favorite cast member. A little over two decades later, every public event on earth is a frothing nightmare of personalities. Predictably, the deep luring questions are already being asked: how will Kendall feel about being in Paris for the first time since her sister Kim got robbed there during Fashion Week? how does Karlie Kloss balance between the gurgling feud of Taylor Swift and Kim Kardashian? is Bella Hadid’s nose job establishing a new trend of natural looking plastic surgery?

The nepotism of personality is the kingpin of our every fortune. Take the presidential election as the most consequential example. Many liberals are already murmuring that they would like to see Michelle Obama run for office in 2020. She’s never suggested anything of the sort—in fact, she’s only suggested how excited she is to have a more normal family life again. But the people who hope to see her take back the torch from the howling orange beast who will soon take it from her husband are merely looking at how modish and dignified she was as first lady. They’re remembering her few good speeches, repeating her “When they go low, we go high” mantra ad nauseam. Perhaps an elegant first lady, but her initial and only qualification is that she’s married to the standing president—otherwise, no one would even know who she is.

Rousing behind the idea that someone has the divine right of authority because they are related or closely intimate with another is what will turn the United States into the worst form of monarchy. It’s what Confucius advocated for 3,000 years ago—to balance “filial piety with merit”—the touchstone characteristic of a monarchy.

It’s one of the reasons that made Hillary Clinton such a terrible candidate for the first female president—her political clout was never self-made. She’s a royal automaton, a waxen effigy glued together with kindergarten paste who rode on the curtails of her husband. Elizabeth Warren, Kirsten Gillibrand, Samantha Power, they are all better representatives of the self-made woman.

The parallels are obvious. The Hadid sisters and Kendall Jenner have corralled millions of loyal disciples by making duck lips with the Snapchat doggy nose and the garland of butterflies and lilies, like some strange animal hybrid, hoisting themselves up towards unimaginable fame and fortune. The Victoria Secret Fashion Show is just their season finale. The U.S. presidential election was an eighteen-month reality T.V. show of a reality T.V. star and a royal family member—the perverse spectacle is turning back on itself in gruesome irony. The only option left is revolt.


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“Famous”: The Passion of Kanye West

“Self-attachment is the first sign of madness, but it is because man is attached to himself that he accepts error as truth, lies as reality, violence and ugliness as beauty and justice.” Michel Foucault, Madness and Civilization

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by Guy Walker

Kanye West’s new music video for “Famous” was a non-event. Actually, it was an awful 8 minute episode of pubescent vagary. The soporific post-coitus scenery of famous people with their clothes off, the illusory novelty of seeing a politician’s naked wrinkly body, or Taylor Swift’s elusive belly button, lacks the shock value that it so desperately craves. He’s mimicking what every young boy does when they’re first stepping into the shallows of internet porn, as they look up pictures of Britney Spears with photoshopped bare tits, as they jerk off into a dirty sock, looking behind their shoulder to make sure mom isn’t walking in to check what all the padded smacking is in the middle of the night. Kanye uses the banal and dreary antics of sex, celebrity, and scandal to cobble up some hermetic perversion, like the chubby kid in film school who decided to make amateur soft-porn instead.

But I’m not saying anything new. Nobody liked it. The narcissism is obvious. The lack of artistry is obvious. The plagiarism is obvious. Kanye said he was directly inspired by Vincent Desiderio’s painting “Sleep.” This is incorrect. Being directly inspired to this extent is nothing more than stealing an artist’s original idea and posturing it as your own interpretation of it, as something more deep and enigmatic. He directly lifted the composition and concept from Desiderio and glued in the bodies of people we recognize. Art has this weird brutish tendency that says it’s okay to plagiarize as long as you say you plagiarized it. It praises this, in fact. Because it allows other oleaginous Calabasas illiterates to repeat to their doleful friends, “Oh, it was inspired by Desiderio’s painting ‘Sleep,’” and sound like they know what the fuck they’re talking about. “Desiderio” rolls off the tongue like butter on a horse dick in the scalding summer heat. You can hear Javier Bardem whisper “Desiderio, mi amor” into your ear, the moist titillation of rosebud and jasmine filling up your underwear. You can see Kanye in a moss-laden forest somewhere, screaming “Desiderio! I like art! Desiderio! Now I’m smart! Desiderio! Smell my fart!” and then scamper off to steal some bird eggs and tell his friends that Kim just laid them.

Of course it’s a pity that all the fuss and attention is directed at Kanye, because “Sleep” is a phenomenal original work of art, and “Famous” is cornfed tabloid fuckery. Comparing “Famous” to “Sleep” is like claiming “Babe” is a film adaptation of Orwell’s Animal Farm—we are all sadder and more cynical for seeing the former.

But as an artist, what did Kanye actually create? He obviously didn’t sculpt the waxen effigies of all the celebrities. He didn’t do the filming with a shitty camcorder. He didn’t come up with the original concept. We can give him the benefit of the doubt and say he wrote the lyrics, with all his grand Rimbaudian paean:

Bam bam, bam bam

Bam bam dilla, bam bam

Let me see you act up in this motherfucker

‘Ey what a bam bam

Bam bam dilla, bam bam

How you feelin’, how you feelin’, how you feelin’ in this motherfucker, god damn…

And on and on until you want to kill squirrels, eat pinecones, dress in those silver heatsheets, anything to take your mind off his scabrous hell of dick and meatloaf.

So what actually makes this Kanye’s video? He did after all admit it was merely a “comment on fame,” a lonely grunt in the whirlwind of theater, a shrug of troglodytic humor amongst the 7 billion handicapped tribe dragging themselves up the moor of mortality. Or is he playing a practical joke? After all, when Marcel Duchamp bought a urinal from a New York plumbing supplier and turned it upside down and signed it “R. MUTT 1917,” he was playing a Dadaist prank on the entire art world, exposing it for its appetence for sham. And every non-artist bought the bullshit, and began the conceptual revolution in the art world: Damien Hirst glued diamonds onto a human skull, Tracey Emin displayed her messy bed, Joseph Kosuth set a chair next to a photograph of a chair next to a dictionary’s definition of a chair, Piero Manzoni canned 90 tins of his own shit (and sold them for the price of gold). And Kanye West created the film to his song “Famous.”

In Either/Or, Kierkegaard says the original sin of everything is boredom. God was bored of empty space so he created the world. He was bored of algae and flies so he created Adam. He was bored with Adam so he created Eve, then the apple, then tits and lust and hunger and war. We were bored with Africa so we went to Europe, then the New World, then the moon, and now Mars. We’re bored of sobriety. Bored of whiskey. Bored of coke and strippers and love. Pop stars are known to have about three years of fame before we all get bored of them. Fortunately for Kanye, he’s not a pop star; he’s Pablo. He’s Andy Warhol. He called the wax artist for the video his Jesus, which makes him God.

For these few years of ephemeral misery, there is Kanye to show us the way forward. From the bright empyrean gates, the massive gold clouds continue to swell, overwhelming the heavens. The cloistered cum-encrusted bedsheets mummifying Bill Cosby, who giggles rudely as he humps Rihanna’s leg. Donald Trump is of course on all fours, Kanye tossing his salad, his glossy face covered in damp Cheeto dust, the moist triumph dripping down his neck. Everyone wheezes in the heavy air, Kim’s ass continuing to swell, larger than the clouds—finally, she is just one enormous ass, chomping on everything around her, smacking on the food of other bodies, all that hunger for the world. The celebrities disappear one by one, down the hatch. Taylor Swift croaks “What did I do?” as Kim’s ass gobbles her up. Soon, her ass has eaten everything. No clouds, no forests, no whales or fish or mountains. There are no more planets, no more stars. Just one stagnant black hole, her greased-up buttocks waiting in the infinity of empty space.

Is Ryan Seacrest the Erection of God?

I think of my great swan with his crazy motions,

Ridiculous, sublime, like a man in exile,

Relentlessly gnawed by longing! and then of you.”

-Charles Baudelaire

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You wake up squinting under the blinding effluvium, the jasmine-scented hand lotions overwhelming your dream state, the ocean breeze of Malibu shoving its way into the white marble living room, the long alabaster silk curtains blowing in and gently caressing your glossy buttocks. The couch is, of course, made from endangered hippopotamus leather, dyed bright orange. A bowl of plastic peaches and bananas are arranged in stellifariously kinky positions. A six-foot portrait of pop radio host turned reality tv producer, Ryan Seacrest, looms above the fireplace, and Don’t Stop Believin’ is playin’ softly somewhere—in the surround sound perhaps. You look around, still half-awake, not entirely sure what all this is about. Then a meaty little Guatemalan maid dressed up as a Sugar Plum Fairy walks into the room, her huge feathered wings knocking over a vase of pearl-plated dildos, smashing them to the ground; she ignores the mess completely and greets you with a crystalline bowl of M&M’s, except instead of the colored chocolates they are a blazing assortment of muscle-relaxers, anti-depressants, opioids, and sleeping pills. She smiles, and then opens her lipless mouth. “A tribal offering from our leader, mister Ryan Seacrest himself,” she says. You take a handful and pop them into your mouth, and spend the next 30 minutes thoughtlessly scrolling through photos of your ex-girlfriends, when the maid returns. “Mister Ryan Seacrest will see you now. You must wear this when in his presence.” She hands you a pair of leather pants and suspenders, with the dozens of miniature faces of the entire cast of Keeping up with the Kardashians (a show Seacrest created and produces, as well as the spin-offs Khloe and Lamar, Kourtney and Kim Take New York, and of course Kourtney and Khloe Take Miami) printed all over them, every one of Bruce’s face crossed out with a red marker and Caitlyn’s printed even larger next to it. You walk across the living room and push open the white marble door, and there is a roundtable of the entire cast. Caitlyn is sitting with her legs spread, her cryogenized shriveling raisin face barely held together with Elmer’s glue and Onabotulinumtoxin, her neck skin hanging loosely like a chicken’s gizzard. She drums the tips of her long red fingernails against the glass covering of the walnut table, staring at you blankly. Kim Kardashian has disappeared completely into her own ass; she is just one huge glistening ass sitting in the leather chair, an amorphous sphere, she is used more as a steatopygous scrying stone for Kanye and company to peer into. You look up at the wall, and Ryan Seacrest is a flickering hologram, a static two-dimensional image talking to everybody—yet nobody—about cooking utensils, then nail polish, then dead cats. Then he turns his gaze and stares directly at you, his eyes piercingly familiar. “I want to make a television series of you,” he booms over the loud speakers. “You will become a black woman who’s only desire is to be spanked by Donald Trump. We’ll call the show Margaret gets the Donald. You will be famous. You will be wretched and hideous, but you’ll be incredibly famous.” You turn and flex in the mirror, and you smile.

The question remains: Exactly who is Ryan Seacrest? Of course, he’s the radio and television personality, but who is he beyond the coruscating blush of personality? In Adorno’s Minima Moralia, he writes, “The self, its guiding idea and its a priori object, has always, under its scrutiny, been rendered at the same time non-existent.” The ego, the superego, and the id, are dressed in the womb and then shoved into the florescent screaming world, growing unwittingly into a child, then an adult, then a drooling automaton, all with varying degrees of morality, decency, and libidinal dandyism, until death finally sweeps us into the curdled pile of wet ash. But Ryan Seacrest is not actually human. He is perhaps something closer to Baudrillard’s “hyperreality of God,” a turgid simulation of a man, or beast, pretending to be a god. He is not even a thing, but rather a personality. He’s an abstract filament of the psyche itself that has manifested into a man on your television screen, asking movie stars what it’s like to be human. It’s obvious that Ryan Seacrest was the voice inside Nietzsche’s head, forcing him to toss himself onto the horse in Turin. He is the complete and final annihilation of the Self. Adorno continues “…that which posits itself as ‘I’ is indeed mere prejudice, an ideological hypostasization of the abstract centres of domination, criticism of which demands the removal of the ideology of ‘personality.’” But the ‘personality’ is the necessary lie that holds all the chaos and drama of our lives together. The award-winning actor, for example, is a chameleon of personality, beautifully blending into the charismas of crime lords and superheroes through his mastery of method-acting. But wild-eyed fans don’t want the man or woman behind the mask—they only want the personality. When Hunter S. Thompson was interviewed on his property in Colorado, he confessed he never knew if people wanted Hunter or the caricature of himself that he portrayed in his books—because they were drastically different persons, one a man of desires and despairs, the other strictly an ‘ideology of personality.’ This rationalization “confirms man’s non-being,” as Adorno later put it, for personality is everything, and it is itself fraudulent. This is why man can never be in love without a bit of mystery. We are drawn more by fantasy, more by the picture of a gorgeous woman or man that we say we would ‘love to know,’ when in fact we must never really know. Because once the facade fades, we are merely another hairless ape trying to dampen our private parts. The divorce of intimacy naturally ensues when the alpha and the cowboy and the ballerina are dragged out into the open, and the shattering despair of reality is all that’s left. We live for eternal desiring, eternal longing for beauty, for something that will make us ache for life. Slavoj Žižek said in A Pervert’s Guide to Cinema, “there is nothing spontaneous, nothing natural, about human desires. Our desires are artificial. We have to be taught to desire […] Cinema is the ultimate pervert art—it doesn’t give you what you desire, it tells you how to desire.” It’s obvious that Ryan Seacrest studied Adorno and Žižek when constructing the psychoanalytic format for American Idol and Keeping up with the Kardashians—these shows gently stroke our incessant desire for personality more than anything else. The culture industry is a great machine of glistening asses, led only partially by Ryan Seacrest. If he wasn’t there, somebody else would be, tirelessly grinding away at the stone of desire. Soon there will be nothing left. Just an orgy of holograms, rubbing against the immense black emptiness all around, a white burning comet hurling by.

Dan Bilzerian and the End of All Life

“Always one times one–eventually that makes two.Dan Bilzerian, completely hairless, commanding a group of ravens shivering in the moonless night.

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The last casino locks its gates. Only a few dazzling neon lights are left, most of them burnt out and looted in a wanton frenzy for bright color, leaving the Vegas strip a squalid Sophoclean tragedy, a small world of dimly lit acheiropoietons who already turned somber. The deserted clubs host only vague starless eidolons, glitter, cocaine dust  .  .  .  a single Louboutin with the heel broken lies in the center of the dance floor. The VIP rooms and dance halls will be flourishing terrariums before long  .  .  .  like scarlet Edens, posthumous humans. The hookers and the DJ’s all died in a massive orgy gone wrong. There is still war and heartache, but because the DJ’s are dead, there is peace. Donald Trump is still locked in a dark fetid bathroom stall, whimpering to himself, as an anonymous half-erect penis pokes him in the ear through the glory hole of the bathroom wall. Even the street-sweepers and the garbage men gave up and got drunk and tried to caravan to South America, but were last seen driving through the desert, waving an enormous American flag behind the leading truck.

A great wind kicks up and a bald girning coyote runs across the street. A homeless man, hunchbacked and wrapped in a Pendleton blanket, walks up and stops at a magazine newsstand, flips through a few of the covers. He stops at Vanity Fair. “Call Me Debra!” one cover reads, with a woman who was once Dan Bilzerian, but she still has fat cheeks and still has bad teeth. “What an ugly woman,” the homeless man whispers to himself, and takes another pull from his fifth of Jack, and drops the magazine on the ground.

When Caitlyn Jenner inverted his/her penis and put on lipstick, the servile affairs of rich people were more or less routine: liberals hashtagged for equal rights, the corporate oligarchy obliterated what was left of the American dream, the oceans acidified, factory farms killed everything, and celebrity kept everyone waving their arms, screaming “Everything is fucked, but I don’t want to pay attention!” Bradley Manning became Chelsea Manning back in 2013, but because she’s merely a whistleblower exposing some of the most egregious modern U.S. warcrimes, and consequently imprisoned for 35 years, she didn’t win over the paparazzi. But when Dan Bilzerian became Debra—or Debs to his closest girlfriends—the heaving androgyny of modern man turned a new page.

Dan was once a big deal on Instagram. He had millions of followers, his photos consisted of guns, escorts with fake titties  .  .  .  and that was more or less it. He had a beard that disguised his resemblance to a female Pavel Smerdyakov, and was once offered $100,000 by an unnamed co-owner of Facebook to shave it off, which he refused. We know that hidden behind Nietzsche’s tremendous mustache was an insane elitist, but only until now do we realize that hidden behind Dan’s beard was a lonely deformed woman. Born the son of Paul Bilzerian, a Vietnam War veteran of Armenian descent who also sports a big mustache, Dan quickly learned the inarticulate madness of a fraudulent existence. Paul was an “American corporate takeover specialist,” even though he’s Armenian, and even though he was unsuccessful in his takeover attempts. He went to prison twice for fraud, has filed for bankruptcy twice—one of which he only paid $400,000 of a $300 million debt, and another declaring assets of $15,805 against $140 million in debts—and currently lives on St Kitts in the West Indies where he has paid $3.7 million of a two-decade old $62 million corporate fraud charge against him. The tepid egodystonicity of trust-fund children are rabid nightmarish realities, the drunken vultures of misery, vacuous orgasms of death  .  .  .  because one of nature’s law is that a life of great privilege leads to great squander. As a kid, Dan brought an M-16 to school, obviously resulting in his expulsion. He got kicked out of the Navy SEALS training program twice, boasts of his poker achievements when his greatest claim to fame is coming in 180th place in the 2009 World Series of Poker; he threw a teenage pornstar from his roof and broke her foot, he kicked a woman in the face at LIV Nightclub in Miami, leaving her bleeding; he paid $1 million to have eight minutes screen time and 80 words of dialogue in the film Lone Survivor, and sued the producers when he was only given less than a minute; he’s had three heart attacks (one of which he got from taking Viagra), has two goats, lasered off his chest hair, and has just announced that he is running for the President of the United States. In a profile of him in British GQ earlier this year, it stated that Dan is 5 feet, 7 inches tall, to which Dan’s social media manager emailed the writer of the article immediately to confirm that he is in fact 5 feet, 9 and a half inches tall. That extra half inch. It’s like a child who says he’s 4 and a half. Dan’s penis isn’t 3 inches, it’s 3 and one quarter inches.

Nietzsche argues that in war, the victor is made stupid. The sword lunges at the throat of madness. There’s a kind of luxuriant ennui, an overwhelming boredom that erupts from his Instagram photos  .  .  .  his lifestyle shots of guns and women and cars are more than just banal modern hedonism  .  .  .  they suggest something of a current war to fight back a quiet overwhelming truth  .  .  .  they are threatened by everything real, everything candid and strong. As Herman Melville declares: “I’d strike the sun if it insulted me!” Dan Bilzerian is forced masculinity. He refuses to take photos with fans who are taller than him. It begs great wonder. It is clear there is a nagging insanity he has with his father  .  .  .  even he has admitted this. In Absent Fathers, Lost Sons, Carl Jung analyst Guy Corneau writes that if the son does not develop a positive relation to his father’s male body, he will run the risk of not developing a sense of self as a masculine, as well as possibly developing negatively towards all bodies, male and female. Dan Bilzerian is the incarnation of Sophoclean tragedy: as the story goes, the 5th-century BC Greek character, Oedipus, unwittingly kills his father Laius, and marries his own mother, Jocasta. It’s a crude innate avidity in us all. In Sigmund Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams, he proposes that all humans are born with this Oedipal desire (or Oedipus Complex), to love or lust for your parent of the opposite sex, a desire that potentially causes much guilt if not resolved. And in classical Freudian psychoanalytic theory, in order to overcome this complex and its accompanying guilt, the child must identify with or grow close with his or her same-sex parent. A boy identifying with his father is the critical psychological experience that establishes a mature sexual identity. If the complex is never resolved, if the boy does not develop through his father, he runs the risk of neurosis, pedophilia, or worst of all, Dan Bilzerian. In Greek mythology, Chronos, the father of the gods, is in perpetual war with his sons  .  .  .  an endless warfare of masculinity. The gods of vanity are before us! The heartache of Youth! Fire, Wine, Death! I swear, I want Misery!

This is why Dan is becoming a woman  .  .  .  the era of guns and cars and g-string women was merely an ephemeral fart of denial. He has already begun the transition  .  .  .  like I mentioned, he lasered all the hair off his chest.

Vanity is no more complex than masturbation: the immeasurable pleasure of touching yourself. In the mirror, the smile, the serious face, and finally, the face of orgasm. But the bloated tit of our generation is declaring something profound. As we are amid the sixth greatest extinction the world has ever known—the last of course being the extinction of the dinosaurs—as the corporate elite is giving this planet a violent permanent skull-fucking, there are somehow great storms of us who cry with wanton support for the Bilzerians and the Kardashians of the world. The point is not that Dan Bilzerian is an elegiac automaton of a human, nor that Kim is a ho, but rather that the masses crave for the insipid alpha figure, for a white wolf stalking behind the trees, conveying leadership and protection. Instead, Kim sucked a dick on camera and has a fat ass, and Dan has the personality of a dry fuck. He wins an estimated 20,000 new followers everyday  .  .  .  an endless conveyer belt of grunting jeering humans, masses of bodies breathing heavily with their mouths open, a fetid orgy of self-induced Orwellian proles, overshadowing every standing army on the planet. Bilzerian has been compared to Hunter S. Thompson, for his pseudo-hedonistic parade of guns and women, but this is like comparing Jonah Hill to Chris Farley (they both may be fat, but Jonah’s still stupid). Firstly, Bilzerian pays escorts to be with him  .  .  .  Thompson was just fly as fuck. Secondly, Bilzerian admittedly no longer does cocaine  .  .  .  Thompson snorted egregious amounts of it, as well as every other dazzling tragedy under the sun. And lastly, and most importantly, Thompson actually wrote  .  .  .  we love him because the gurgling libertinage of youth grabbed hold of him, because he had the gumption to sit and write The Great Gatsby word for word because he wanted to know what it felt like to physically write the thing. Thompson would do cocaine and acid and women all day, and then create a hysterical madness through the written word. Dan just grunted as he gave his pubic hair a buzz. Dan has every right to be a woman, I support him a hundred and five percent. Because he was never a man in the first place  .  .  .  he’s a symbol, a grotesque reeking ulcer of humanity  .  .  .  he represents the death of mankind.

Charles Darwin described natural selection as being granted vast periods of time by Nature, but not indefinite periods of time. To paraphrase, if a species does not improve itself, it will be exterminated. Darwin was warning us against not a vague fustian concept of extinction, but rather a very definite morbidness, a misshapen horror named Dan Bilzerian. He is our cruel punishment, our Hell. He is insomnia and drunkenness. He is Death itself.