What The Hell Is A Duo Lipa?
The cultural rot is terminal. The civilizational flatline is near.
Not long after the fall of the Soviet Union, a high school friend went to see the aftermath and decided to stay and ‘study abroad’ in Saint Petersburg.
The nation was in the midst of hyperinflation and was being ruthlessly carved up by the Harvard boys and other predatory capitalist swine that thought they were picking the new Russian ruling classes, but it really happened using vodka shots and slide rules at the City of London HQ.
His ‘study abroad’ became a permanent thing. When he came back from his Russian adventures in the late nineties he was a completely different man. He sported one of those black leather blazers with a black t-shirt underneath and black chinos with black steel-tip boots. I didn’t see a gold chain with a cross, but he could have had one of those too.
Sometime near the end of the decade, he picked me up in a rented Ford Mustang and we hit a dive bar to catch up. Another friend met up with us later and when he and I joked about a popular singer fresh off the Hollyweird school girl audition sofas, the friend who had spent years in Russia sat in silence for a few minutes before asking with a completely straight face: “Who the hell is Christina Aguilera?”
We laughed at his ‘joke’ and then realized he really had no clue. It was the early days of the Internet and nobody spent any time on there chasing Perez Hilton or TMZ garbage headlines because there was no “there,” as in there were no gossip sites yet.
“Seriously, who is that?” He asked.
I was jealous and ashamed at the same time.
I made a vow right then to stop wasting so much time and attention trying to keep up with the festering puss sore of popular culture. I wished for a device that could wipe my mind clean of names like Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera.
Then came nine-eleven, anthrax from the pentagon’s bio lab at Fort Detrick mailed to “journalists,” followed by WMDs, and CIA torture programs, and before Obama could be sworn in to continue all of it and expand the drone program, the Middle East scorched earth campaigns for the Rothschild banking cartel, and total police state surveillance of American citizens, I had already traveled a quarter of Europe and started a company in Prague.
For the past twenty years, I mostly kept my vow of ignoring the festering puss sore of popular culture. As each year passed I watched less and less Hollywood garbage, mostly because the pickings became slim with studios chasing money on superhero amusement spectacles and bombing at the box office with diversity quota remakes.
When looking back over the past century with a clear mind one can see that place was always obsessed with itself and the filmmaking, acting, and celebrity pursuit storylines never ceased to dominate awards that are picked by celebrity-obsessed celebrities that don’t ever want to quit celebrating themselves.
After twenty years of mostly ignoring popular film and music, when I scan the sudden death headlines of the latest celebrity I hardly recognize their names. I’ve pretty much reached “Who the hell is that?” status with most celebrities in popular music and film.
Revisiting gossip or ‘showbiz’ sections of the DailyMail requires seeing all the latest things, the hottest names that I’ve heard in passing for years but have never known who they are or why the hell they’re ‘famous.’
The names starting with Lil’ or Young and creatures like Cardi B and Duo Lipa have been passing my eyes for years but my first thoughts are never of celebrities.
Is Cardi B a microphone or a new clothing brand?
Is Megan thee Stallion the latest Kentucky Derby winner?
Duo Lipa must refer to some kind of kinky new lesbian sexual fad, right?
Recently, instead of ignoring them I finally decided to see who the hell they are and discovered the cultural rot I knew was festering back in the late 1990s and early aughts is a case of full-blown terminal civilizational cancer.
Instead of being shocked or saddened as I had been in the past, today, I’m glad to see the western patient on life support is so far beyond the point of resuscitation. The sooner it self-terminates the sooner the rebuilding process can begin from the ashes of socio-cultural degradation and filth.
The flatlining may take another decade but we can now see that beautiful moment on the horizon.
There was a video on YouTube about music culture that transposed live popular music from each decade from the 1920s to the 1960s with trash from today. It used footage from Ken Burns’ Jazz documentary to show just how far we’ve fallen. The contrast was at first hilarious and then shocking.
Shot 1: The Benny Goodman orchestra plays to dancing youngsters in a community hall for six seconds.
Quick cut to Shot 2: A felonious rapper with face tattoos rubbing hundred dollar bills on big greasy asses.
Shot 1: Louis Armstrong singing “Dinah” on stage in Copenhagen in 1933.
Shot 2: Bessie Smith singing Back-Water Blues. Amazing voice…(record scratch sound)
Quick cut to Shot 3: Cardi B singing about wet ass pussy.
I wanted to include the video here but it’s now buried by YouTube’s abomination of a search algorithm that pumps corporate brain tumors to the top thousands of results.
Yesterday while perusing the sudden death celebrity pages I saw that an Adams Family reboot that’s popular with the kids got a young actress who stars on the show 26 million new instashame followers. 26 million!
Apparently, she can now “earn” $117,000 per sponsored post. The stupidity of the digital attention labor of the masses given to this young actress for free is the economic fuel permitting this insanity.
It’s the same paradigm that permitted western governments to buy instashame “influencers” with $3 Billion to push the toxic injections on their millions of young followers, many of whom will be met by shock and horror at their local fertility clinics in the future.
I call it instashame because that’s the instant feeling I got a decade ago when I told some younger graduate students I don’t do selfies and they immediately whipped out their phones and tried to take selfies with me.
Shame. That dirty feeling of vanity and self-absorption, of Narcissus seeing his reflection in the water.
Coincidently it was the same year Twenge and Campbell published The Narcissism Epidemic: Living In the Age of Entitlement.
One kid from the Netherlands said he would post his selfie with me to his Instashame account with the tag ‘first selfie.’ Before he could touch another finger to his phone screen I had it up my sleeve after feigning I threw it from a fourth-story window into the frosty snow blanketing the little square in Krakow.
As everyone laughed at him searching for it down in the snow, I went through and deleted all the photos of me he had taken that night. I asked all the others to do the same on their phones and they complied as I watched over them.
From that point on they asked my permission to take photos and only those pastime group photos where everyone posed shoulder to shoulder to mark one important occasion or another and none of them ever got my blessing to post anything with me to any social media site.
It sounds harsh but I knew more than a decade ago every image of every living human would be collected by the police state to use for facial recognition software development to profile innocent civilians. What started with only criminally convicted mug shots expanded to Facebook, Instashame (which is why Facebook bought the company), and Google/YouTube search.
TikTok is now harvesting people’s voices and images for the Chinese Communist Party who are using the app to collect everything on every person who dances in scrubs or shuffles and lip-syncs in their kitchen like drooling retards.
Passport photos eventually ended up in the AI-powered facial recognition software now shared by the five-eyes nations who share it with other NATO allies, so I know my face is already out there in police state databases.
If I were to take a stroll through the streets of London where six million cameras watch citizens on every block at all times of day and night, they’d know who I am, what passports I hold, where I’ve lived the past twenty years down to all thirteen addresses.
I still refuse to volunteer my face to their police state digital shenanigans despite knowing that the black mirror train is so far from the station the people will one day be shocked to discover the dystopia they’ve helped engineer.
Yet the ghastly sight of ubiquitous narcissism still repulses me. I’m still sickened by the image of a human carrying a selfie stick or someone with their selfie camera on while roaming as a ‘tourist’ unable to devote their attention to their exotic surroundings while being so consumed by their own black mirrored reflection.
The only relief is of a regrettable misanthropic nature. The thought that most of them stumbling around adoring their own ugly mugs have probably lined up for the boosters.
There’s no way to escape this degenerate world, though governments like Canada are offering their own assisted final solutions to anyone who wants it. It’s a shame the people we need lining up the most for boosters or Canada’s mad MAID solution like Cardi B, Duo Lipa, and Bhad Bhabie, are shopping for 20,000 square-foot third vacation homes and private jets because the brain-dead masses keep giving them their time, attention, and money.
I suppose that wouldn’t solve much. If they went away some other filth would just take their places.
Perhaps if we got rid of the brain-dead masses contributing to this sociocultural disease…no!
Not the Malthusian train.
What the hell is a Bhad Bhabie?!
Well, maybe just a short ride for a little while?
Ah hell, they don’t make it easy…
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Thanks for sharing.