THERE ARE THOSE SHITTY DAYS THAT FEEL LIKE A LOW-BUDGET HORROR MOVIE.
Like the one where the bubbly bimbo who usually gets offed first didn’t make it to the shoot that day. Instead, the unsympathetic NPCs – the kind usually designated to die early – are now the main actors. And you realize, bewildered, that they’ll die after you do.
You’d have preferred to be the main character, smashing the crunching skulls of street zombies. Legends would be told about you. Legends where you’re known as something like Monsieur Le Massacre, immortalized in merch as a small figure made of clay, hair, spit, and oily rags. (It’s low-budget, remember.) But no.
On such days, a person genuinely believes the place they were born is rotten to the core. That the world, in principle, is so defectively and shittily put together that you can hear the creaks in your head. The universe itself feels like just another ulcer on the greasy dick of existence.
It doesn’t matter if a person is right or wrong on days like these. What matters is that, like in our exploitation horror flick, on days (and weeks, and years) like these, monsters hatch into being. And because in life, as in filmmaking, there isn’t always a budget for the clarity of mass/serial killers, three types of low budget monsters are born:
The first are the homunculi of routine, whose worldview runs about as deep as a page of classifieds.
The second are the pithecanthropi of pleasure, with buzzing vibrators jutting from every hole, writhing and grunting, impervious to real thought.
The third type is the most frightening. These are the biggest degenerates – self-anointed as ‘the elite’, ‘the intelligentsia’. If you tried to describe or draw them, they’d resemble the thousand-headed serpent from fairy tales, only with each head replaced by a sphincter.
A fox caught a chick to eat.
It squealed and said, ‘Let me go. I’ll take you to eat my mother, my father, and all my siblings.’
The fox considered this, thought it a good trade, and let the chick go.
The bird flew up into a tree and called down, ‘GET FUCKED – I WAS HATCHED IN AN INCUBATOR!’
They are ‘the elite’ not because they are intelligent, or elite, but because they’re too lazy and incapable to be different in any real way from the rest. They call themselves elite to justify doing nothing. To have something to protest about. To watch incomprehensible elitist cinema and then remain clueless about its message.
They have their own internal world – orderly and intelligent, or so they insist. The external world, they believe, is wholly unintelligent. Vulgar. Trashy. Intolerant, they’d say. It oppresses them like a colonial power and makes them seethe with offense. They want someone – preferably someone they deem oppressed – to come, to understand them, to brutally violate them, and then they’ll submit completely. They write opinions, articles, and essays because no one wants to listen to them. And usually, when someone finally does, that someone just starts fucking them over. Hard.
‘What can I really do?’ they often sigh to themselves. ‘It’s just a messed-up world. Offensive. Bigoted. Ungrateful. And I am so benevolent. So tolerant. I’d rather return to my small, orderly, coquettish little world. My neighborhood. My house. I’ll wrap myself in silence, mid-century modern furniture, and three vodka-addled friends. I cannot be responsible. I just hate the world when it disagrees with me.’
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