I need to be sprayed with Valtrex just looking at this canned iniquity.
And for 10, or so, interchangeable, meh doods who are hawt because they the powers that be told you they were?
Can dissolution not be so, I’unno, bourgeois homonormative?
May we find new techniques and packages of titillation, please?
Must it all, stuff like this, be so appallingly banal, chock full of dreadfully perfunctory buttaface musclecandy?
It’s not sexy – it’s safe, lacquered, and forced.
It’s sterile, automatic – and there’s no gulp of air, no verve kick soul to it.
It’s just dead animation. That moves. And puts its stuff in your face. Smelling like plastic.
We can’t drool over things manufactured in a lab. We can’t pant over latte-hued Ken dolls – and if you can, that’s sad.
The clip above is a stand-in.
If you know what I am talking about, you’ll understand – but probably won’t, and curse me out as a Calvinist.
If not, well…
Comemos. Rogamos. Amamos.
Comemos, dormimos, cagamos!
Friend: “Dewey – come on! It’s an R-rated thing, and you’re writing PG! I mean, it’s a music video for a gay rapper!”