Why were there huge Black Lives Matter protests in Europe when American policing and American racism (which are supposed to be the reason for BLM in the first place) have nothing to do with you?
— asked Gail Finke, an American substack reader under eugyppius’ post
If there’s something that European pensioners and the youf both share is the dream of being American, to live like that. In pursuit of this dream, local culture catches up a lot sooner than local wages, from Dublin to Dakka.
Economic convergence, if possible, is time and capital intensive. Expensive.
Cultural convergence is cheaper. Cultural convergence is free. Cultural convergence is profitable.
Take this example, a BLM-statue erected by a local council in Budapest in 2021:
Hungary in 2021 had many problems, excessive police brutality was none of them. Erecting a tiny, 3D printed, rainbow colored Statue of Liberty in the name of Black Lives Matter in a working class district of an Eastern European city, the delusion of the local politicians that they’re living in America is so mind numbingly absurd that it’s impossible to ridicule. It’s such a picture perfect amalgamate of submissive colonial trash that if I had to come up with a parody, I’d do exactly the same1.
I’m past demoralization or whatever extra stages of grief you can have beyond the usual 5, when it comes to cultural colonization. I’m probably at 7 or 8.
I want to be positive. I want solutions.
Wouldn’t it be nice to have just one month when we focus on our own culture on the Old Continent? A European Culture Month? The Americans can have the other eleven and dominate them to their pleasure, just let us have a single month!
It would be invigorating, it would be refreshing, I can guarantee that, because we had test run of this, a European Culture Week, this September, by accident. Remember?
Benchmark Brigitte
On the 23rd of February, Wednesday, I had a very pleasant evening, watching a black and white Italian comedy from 1962. It was truly blissful, memorable on its own, not just in the night’s later context. It didn’t feel like I’m turning into a grumpy old man by refusing to consume the endless trash our day and age offers at a discount by seeking refuge in the classics, no; I felt rejuvenated as I let myself get lost in a lost era. I felt free from all this shit.
Then came the next morning, the one you’re all familiar with, and the Universe spoke to me. It said: “You want escape from this, nigga? 😂 There ain’t no escapin’ this, nigga 😂“
I eventually yielded to the Universe. I won’t fight the now, I’ll make my peace with it as best as I can. But I’m not wrong in my escapism in one regard: European movies of that era are still magical to many. European culture still has a mass appeal.
This was proven when in September something unexpected happened: one of the Great European Olds of Culture, Jean-Luc Godard died. It made the front pages everywhere. It even had an effect on BitTorrent seeds, my preferred media consumption metric. A community that usually gorges on the latest serialized crap had a few individuals shaken out of the loop who temporarily lifted up the French section of the Criterion Collection from the bottom. A few dozen extra people joined in to push these classics forward, helping out the usual one-to-zero pirates of culture keeping the dusty torrents alive. This shift was still easily dwarfed by the latest episode of Funny Nerd Family that apparently thousands of Hungarians must watch to make their day to day existence tolerable (I myself would prefer suicide). A small uptick, but an undeniable one.
So, as I saw his work popping up in places usually dominated by the endless trash, it made me realize how unusual it is to see something non-American there. European culture is so dead, that it can only make mainstream headlines through obituaries.
I myself prefer my celebrities dead. That way they can’t disappoint you so easily. Some dirt might emerge from beyond the grave, but that’s more forgivable than any cringe done by the living.
We’re culturally wired that way, in Hungary monuments can’t be named after living people. Better be on the safe side.
Of his massive filmography, one stood out, overrepresented, overshadowing whatever Maoist experimental crap he did in the late 60s: Contempt (1963)2. Godard wouldn’t have had this brief resurgence in 2022’s popular culture, taking the front pages, was it not for Brigitte Bardot.
I personally rank her as the 3rd best thing in Contempt behind the scenes of 60s Capri and thewonky interior design details dominating the long shots from the corner3, but I’m weird.
European culture through Godard’s death and Brigitte Bardot managed come to the surface, above all the American crap, one last time, to remind us what we have lost.
Brigitte is a benchmark of that long gone cultural potential.
She was so ever-penetrating, that she even showed up in Hungary, behind the Iron Curtain, in contemporary prose (1967):
The woman was silent. The girl suddenly remembered something, picked up a magazine from the floor, and browsed for an article. - Listen to what a thirteen-year-old French schoolgirl says about Brigitte Bardot: "She has long hair because she wears a wig. She's blonde because she's bleached. She has long, black eyelashes, but they're false. Her eyes look huge because they're decorated with paint. Her mouth is too lush, her ankles are thick, her legs are thin. And she obviously thinks she has a soul because she thinks he's immortal." She gives it to her well, doesn't he? But look, here's a picture of Bardot, I swear the girl's got a point.
She wasn’t looking at the picture, she was looking at her daughter, she had a good figure, almost as good as she'd ever had. But that wasn't the point. There was something tinglingly good about having the magazine in front of her in French and her reading it in Hungarian. She only knew two words in French: chat noir, from a cologne bottle, but it turned out that she didn't know it well, she thought chat was black and noir was cat. 4
Now that’s some cultural impact (and a good example of Kádár era melancholy and an explanation for our suicide rates5).
Do we still have this dominating cultural power in us, Europeans? If not on the world stage, just on our home turf, if not superiority, just an equality with America, if not always, just periodically, from time to time?
It doesn’t seem like we do, Godard’s unexpected post-mortem resurgence makes our defeat very clear.
What about you, French? Any contemporary successes hijacking your culture into the mainstream? The best shot you have is Houellebecq, notorious for his shock value, yet Raspail’s 1973 Camp of the Saints blows it away in scandalousness, even today, any day. A book that’s half a century old is more of a taboo than anything 2020s Europe can come up with. Taboos are broken by America nowadays.
A magazine’s offices shot up by terrorists, a concert shot up by terrorist, Houellebecq, a cathedral on fire, and a dead director: French culture elbowing its way back into the Western consciousness through shock and horror. At the concert only the venue was French, the band was American, so I was generous.
A retrospect is needed to figure out how we got here.
I can’t speak for the French, but I know Hungarian pop culture by personal experience. I’ll start at the top.
The 1980s: peak modern Hungarian culture
The last great Hungarian cultural products emerged in the 80s: the very last years of having the Iron Curtain as a leaky barrier that holds Western culture back.
Enough seeped through to allow mimicking it, to fertilize the local scene, but not enough to drown the inferior domestic production.
It was both insular and open at the same time. Balanced. There was hope that this will be over one day, that we will be free, and in the mean time we were the happiest barrack on this side of the Iron Curtain. It made the cultural zeitgeist fertile and self-confident.
Our Great National Rock Opera just turned 40. History, scaffolding and lasers (1981)
A lot of homegrown crap was produced, but there were also undisputed gems, stuff that still holds up today. Cultural products so outstanding that the past 30 years of absolute freedom failed to come up with anything that rivals them.
We’ve created something that not only lives on in the nostalgic memory of the old, but also sells well among younger generations with no marketing budget propping it up, organically and unironically.
If there’s a proof of objective excellence, that is.
A cartoon from 1986 can still attract a huge crowd. Instagram Selfie Square, Budapest, 20226
The most famous Hungarian alive is Rubik. His puzzle thingy (1980) tends to make its way into every Western retro 80s craze du jour product. (Is that trend already dead, or people still can’t get enough references from the extended John Hughes universe? I’m too afraid of the second hand cringe to look.)
As the 80s drew to a close, on the eve of the Eastern Block’s collapse, Hungary was regarded by many — most in the West, really — as the top student in the soon-to-be Post-Socialist pack, and we were aware and proud of this: when the barrier came down, we all rushed to live in America. Culturally, that happened almost overnight. Economically, well, you know how this goes, some promises are easier to fulfill than others. Bangladesh will never be as prosperous as the US was in the 50s, but it can still become woke as it tries to be.
As cheap as an American suburban house, built out of 2x4s can be, you can still make a lot more dildos and personal porn stream devices with that money to please the masses. Keep chasing the dream, and if you submit well enough, you’ll eventually get the catch! Any time now, promise! In the mean time, here’s some contemporary American Culture, for free.
As seen in the cinema / on TV / on Netflix / on BitTorrent / in the metaverse 7
Ed West wrote about the British younger generation:
as someone once put it, they are blessed with abundantly cheap luxuries and unaffordable necessities8
If it’s true to them, it’s doubly true to nations further down the chain/drain.
Import is irresistible (1990s-today)
The 90s begin, and so does our current Hungarian cultural status quo.
The year is cca. 1991. My mom takes me to the local Tisza shoe store. It’s a domestic brand that is still in production, although on the decline, as every formerly socialist enterprise is.
There’s nothing cool about Tisza or any commie brand. The West is in. It’s embarrassing, even a 6 year old understands this, but money is tight, and I outgrow my clothes fast. My mom insists on getting me sandals. I hate sandals.
I hate tying shoelaces even more. If I was a kid today, I’d be diagnosed with severe ADHD. Back then I was just considered extremely unruly, but since I was also considered bright, somehow I got away with it. Still, keeping my shoes tied without adult supervision was a tall order.
Sandals have straps. I get sandals.
We were pretty much instantly culturally colonized, but it wasn’t entirely American, not at first: some European pop culture did manage to elbow its way through in the 90s. The most remarkable difference, from my prepubescent point of view, was the — chiefly sexual — libertinism that the broader German continental kulturslop offered; Britney might have caused a moral panic in the US in 1998, but in the Old World, the ‘68ers ultimate liberation attempt in the 70s left enough imprint on culture that made the extasy-fuelled Euro 90s anything but prudent, so much so that it was apparent even to me, as a kid.
A good example of the European state of libertinism is The Story of the Winnie the Pooh Girl. You have to understand that just because the old bearded men in France, spearheading our post-modern word view were thwarted in the 70s from legally fucking 12 year olds, 12 year olds fucking each other while the old bearded men salivate over them was still considered kind of in ordnung; so if the jungs want to do it, the adults must be supportive, ja? Cue the most popular Hungarian teen magazine in the 90s, a German import, that had a hilarious sex advice column, for kids. It involved young people writing in for advice (99% made up by the editors). Many hilarious bits from this Q&A was read and shared among us, 90s kids, back in the day, all lost to time and memory, except the most notorious one, Winnie the Pooh Girl. It features a 9 year old girl who — unknowingly, it just feels good — masturbates while watching Winnie the Pooh, and asks bearded expert man if it’s okay. Of course it is, replies the perverted columnist.
This crap made it into print, into wide circulation, and so made it into our generational memory, as both joyous and traumatic. By the time Britney showed up in 1998 and shook her whatever, we were past any possible moral panic over a high school girl dancing on TV. She was however an important step; from the viewpoint of total American cultural domination, a step in the right direction.
Once America got okay with pushing free sex, the market advantage giving European pop culture and edge was doomed to melt away.
The more sex America was comfortable with, the less European pop culture had left to offer. America, sometime around the Millennium, started offering more and more, at one point as much as Europeans do, and eventually surpassing everyone in sexual liberty. In today’s America, there seems to be no limit, age or level of kink. (Although, as I’ve mentioned before, we kinda know the ultimate limit since 1973. If I trust those pervy old philosophers with one thing, it’s seeking out theoretical bounds.)
PHONE REPORT FROM OUR ROME CORRESPONDENT: Diplomatic complications because of Brigitte Bardot's legs
The film star's propagandists in Italy, promoting her new film as "Miss Spogliarello" by Brigitte Bardot (the best Hungarian translation of which is something like strip-tease, getting naked as a performance) have exploited the actress's amazing proportions to the full.
The series of posters became the last drop that finally filled the already rather full bucket of the Holy See's indignation. During his Mardi Gras address, Pope Pius XII has strongly condemned the moral infestation that has taken hold of Rome. He declared that the distribution of such advertisements as the one in the above-mentioned posters was a violation of the Lateran Treaty (a pact between Mussolini and the Church). 9
During the 1990s in Hungary, cultural colonization didn’t happen by force: once we had all this freedom to do anything, the endless possibilities suddenly became daunting. So, amidst this confusion, our culture makers did the logical thing: look for hints for what to pursue in places where it’s more evolved, to see what the good stuff is ahead of us. In the West.
Domestic mainstream culture, hopelessly uncompetitive, was tossed to the garbage overnight.
Now I know that this can be hand-waved away by cynically pointing out that the cultural mainstream, aka. pop culture is just business, so why bother wasting any tears over this loss? Why even think of it as a loss? The consumers chose a better product, good for them! Good for all of us, show me what you consume before you judge!
In mainstream culture, it’s capitalism now, the survival of the fittest, an extinction event for the dinosaurs.
The year is 1993. I’m at the local pediatrician’s office, at the ground floor of a commie block. It was built and decorated in the 80s, the walls have characters from a Hungarian cartoon that stars an owl who’s a doctor (1973-1983). It feels behind the times, even to a kid like me.
Nowadays a decade old interior would still be considered fresh, but in 1993, this perfectly preserved time capsule from the early 80s feels depressingly out of its time.
Outside it’s all Jurassic Park, all dinosaurs. Even potato chips are dinosaur-shaped and have the official branding. There’s so much emphasis in intellectual property that even kids are browbeaten by both the soft and hard powers not to pirate anything. It’s a crime. The country’s economy is going to shit, yet the on TV they’re celebrating a bizarre stunt, a steamroller crushing a pile of unlicensed audio cassettes, as if Warner Music’s lost revenue in Eastern Europe should be the greatest concern to Hungarians.
You’re culturally conquered, and you must pay the price, now and forever!
Culture of the gaps
There’s still plenty of prospect for culture that has no hope of making it in the free market, the mainstream: it can live off state grants or go flourish underground, right?
Well, even if we assume the best case, accepting these terms is already cultural surrender, just not unconditional. But alas I accept it, I can only shake my fist at the clouds so much. So what can these remaining gaps offer?
On paper, state funding can keep Hungarian culture alive, folk dancers and embroidery will outlast Spielberg’s dinosaurs. Just throw taxpayer money at it, and crisis is averted.
In reality, as the past 30 years of public funded cultural achievements show, state funding corrupts in so many ways that Hungarian culture is alive there the same way a malignant tumor is technically your tissue and it’s technically alive. If you want to make culture more Hungarian, shoving more money into public grants will only make things worse; you wouldn’t want to double the resources pumped into a tumor to make it grow even larger, do you? No, you should probably cut the blood flow to it.10
The year is 2001. I’m at the local steel mill doing a bullshit summer job. The workers do their best to be hospitable, I’m the fresh meat, just a kid they have to tolerate for a few weeks, yet it still feels like prison. It’s a mighty large prison, the size of a town, but I’d rather be anywhere else. There’s nothing for me to do, I’m just a high school kid, can’t be trusted with anything.
I’m not the only one though. One of the guys, a full time, unskilled hand, in his 20s, making the minimum wage with zero aspirations is also on the same level of uselessness as I am. We’re colleagues. Midway into my summer job, he takes the week of to go to Sziget Festival. (Pepsi Sziget back then). As he’s gone, the others get gossipy about him, telling me that this is the dude’s high point of the year, he blows most of his savings on it, and once he’s back he will spend the next year telling stories about Sziget and saving money up until the next Sziget comes. I don’t envy him, no one seems to either.
One day an older guy shows up in a bathrobe, wearing flip flops in the factory. He’s warmly welcomed by the crew of the machine shop. Turns out he’s a local sculptor and artist. Full time, living off state grants, as he always did. Bound by no clocks, subservient to no boss. He might have to make deadlines for the grants, but anything he ends up creating is accepted as art, he’s into abstract metal sculptures. Weld shit together and call it “Allah smashes Michelangelo” or whatever. That’s why he’s here, the tradesmen happily help him out, he’s a welcome change. I envy his freedom as a prisoner, envy it to some extent still, even today.
By the summer of 2000, the pediatrician’s office is long gone. The place was converted into a fancy butcher shop. The posters with the cartoon owl doctor were probably thrown into a container with the rest of the rubble. No one cared back then. Today they would fetch very good money at online auctions — in 2000 they’re obsolete, smelly, worthless crap. Hungarian crap, which is even worse.
Anything but Hungarian, thank you!
By the Millennium we’re colonized, abused, and view anyone who’s not self-loathing as delusional; we’re suffering from a cultural Stockholm Syndrome on a national level.
This leaves only the underground as the refuge of genuine culture that can still deliver a wonder weapon that may not change the course of the war, but could keep some territory unoccupied, liberated.
Alternative culture was important to me, to us, the privileged slice of our generation. The folk stuff, we weren’t in it really, no big loss if it’s gone or corrupted, but the underground, for our small town, Millennial proto-intelligentsia coming of age in the 2000s, was everything.
We looked up to the Hungarian Gen X tastemakers as role models.
The betrayal of the underground
They betrayed us.
How could the Hungarian underground resist what has happened to the mainstream, when the Western underground was so vast and full of energy, so superior in output that consuming it was a full time job, and translating the best, audience tested parts to domestic consumers was a lot easier and safer than trying to come up with something original?
No subculture had an exemption from the forces free market, not even the anarchists and other hardcore commies.
Why come up with genuine, Hungarian gonzo, when you can just open The eXile? Why bother coming up with an original idea in Hungary when the Western scene has a thousand times more energy and money to evolve: it’s unlikely that you’ll come up with a competitive, original product in your backwater, so just pick their best and import it. It’s an irresistible ROI.
Have you heard about the internet? The underground rulez there! (Youth magazine, June 1997)
Our underground doesn’t have thinkers. It has importers. Even the best just mimic and reassemble foreign sources.
You don’t need to be creative and God forbid you try to be original, that more often leads to disaster than not. Find a cool source, don’t worry, it doesn’t even need to be as obscure as the aforementioned eXile, find something almost mainstream, something online, in English, and translate it to Hungarian as your own thoughts. This was the rule for achieving underground opinion leadership status in the 2000s.
VICE media, when it was already getting millions of views in the West, a household name in the urban demo, was still unknown here, it could still be used as a source of arcane wisdom on weird stuff that would make the Hungarian underground importer seem like a cutting edge cultural renegade.
While the physical barrier came down with the Iron Curtain, a language barrier remained. Hungarian Generation X loves everything American from the mainstream to the most obscure alternative scenes, yet they never mastered English on a level that allows them to go directly to the source: with their purchasing power peaking in the 00s, they were a worthy audience for narcissistic importers who just wanted the stage. Anyone with a thick enough skin could get the applause they craved from a crowd that was incapable of looking behind the curtains, and so the underground-adjacent masses of Generation X lapped up the most unoriginal and lazy translations of Western cultural products, cheering the shameless copycats on, boosting the latter’s ego until self-delusion convinced them that they’re more than just hacks.
Some American blogger in the mid-00s, the heyday of web 2.0 starts a shaving blog. Who cares about shaving? That’s a question cultural importers don’t need to trouble themselves with: once the American blogger gets attention from the yet-to-be-mainstream Buzzfeeds of the day, and thus the attention of the importers in Hungary, who only read the foreign clickbait sites, the content is guaranteed to be certified gold. Check if anyone is already doing this in Hungary, and if not, become the Hungarian copy, the domestic online shaving expert. Blogs were underground, they were legit alternative media, and so were their domestic reproductions, so by doing this you’re not only an expert, you’re underground, gonzo and cool! Cutting edge.11
This receipt was followed to such an extreme that when it came for Nick Denton to take Gawker media to the next level in the early 2010s, he could hire at least a dozen Hungarian bloggers to produce mass appealing trash for the US market, going so far as opening an office for them in Budapest.
They weren’t chosen because of their unique, paprika-infused Hungarian perspective, they were chosen because, as veteran media importers, they could reproduce American online mass culture without a hitch, for even less money than an intern in New York. By the early 2010s the Hungarian online underground conformed to the West to the level of seamless interchangeability. Many involved were aware of this, but saw nothing in total submission but pure merit. LinkedIn agrees, what else matters?
What started as gonzo became unskilled white collar labor making clickbait, confirming to a mold, losing its identity completely, vitally depending on a foreign source.
The year is 2006. Tisza shoes became one of the most successful retro cool reboots of past Hungarian brands. They’re as underground as it gets, and as independent.
They have a store on Astoria, a key intersection in downtown Budapest. They even get the pricing right: make it as expensive as any Western top brand. Why not?
I get a pair, with velcro straps. Still don’t like shoelaces. Best pair of shoes I’ve ever had. I’ll keep returning for years, especially during my expat years, to have something on my foot that even the brand crazy wouldn’t recognize in the West. Some people judge you on that, you know, and I make that process very difficult by wearing Hungarian shoes.
By the time I move back to Hungary, Tisza was way too mainstream for my inner hipster, and I also lost whatever little care I originally had for the brands I’m wearing. I now prefer unbranded canvas sneakers for $8 a pair from a chain store off the highway ramp. I’m a free man.
Tisza is still going strong, they’re even present in Japan. In the great, global free market, Tisza is tiny, underground, Hungarian and a success story.
The aging Hungarian Gen X audience still prefers the import, and follows their opinion makers (curators) to the grave. Old people set in their ways. Unfortunately for the veteran importers, nearing their 50s, the Western sources lost their former dynamic range of topics in the culture wars, so now they have to hype up their middle aged crowd for transmale vaginas and fat women who are stunning and brave or whatever the woke vending machine gives them. But only what the woke vending machine gives them.
Picture the usual indoctrination video that somehow dodged your adblocker and started autoplaying in the latter half of the past decade. Imagine a dumb Millennial bitch lecturing you with an insufferable vocal fry on some woke nonsense, demonstrated with an animation featuring amorphous, out of proportion neoweimarist abominationcore cartoon characters. As I said, the usual stuff.
Now imagine these old Hungarian opinion maker farts sitting around the computer, taking notes and sweating profusely as they’re trying to come up with a spin to present this crap as gonzo cool to an aging, predominantly male, mostly indifferent Eastern European audience, who are still fine with shouting “faggot”, who are tuning in for the trespassing of boundaries and shit, remember, the old stuff, the underground.
By getting addicted to relying exclusively on Western progressive sources delivering the narratives they push to be hip, as those sources went loony in the culture war, the importers ended up in a hell of their own making. Whenever I encounter their clumsy dance of conformity on the public square minefield of contemporary Western thought, their suffering brings me delight. Let them suffer, they’ve betrayed the underground, they’ve betrayed us.
The younger audiences, who might actually care about transracial poly rimjobs are both better at English and also prefer a more visual medium, they wouldn’t be frantically sharing essays from the Next Internet Hunter S. Thompson anyway, let him be American or Hungarian. They just go straight to the source, a video, bypassing the importers.
The Hungarian underground is dead.
A Proposal
To save Hungarian culture, I have a radical proposal. It doesn’t involve an increase in state funding.
If anything, that should be cut completely, but I have even more important cuts to make.
Cut the internet at the border.
Make it into a Hungarian intranet. Streaming services and other global services can’t have a local server farm. Lights off for the global information highway.
That’s it, short and radical.
Tourists can still visit Hungary, and goods can still come. No restrictions. What’s the worst that can happen, the importers start to bring in DVDs? Let them! If they still have those. With the internet cut off, people used to streaming won’t trouble themselves with getting physical copies of the slop, so ultimately it won’t matter.
There will be a market, I’m sure, but a much bigger opens up for domestic culture in the absence of immediate gratification.
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It sounds radical, but I’m not alone, and not even that radical, if you think of it. In fact my proposal is a very modest one, I’m for example not advocating for an EMP that fries everything more electronically complex than a kettle, unlike an artist near you might do, soon.
There’s an extinction event looming on the horizon for the “creative professions” in the form of machine learning, and the dinosaurs are starting to take notice.
My proposal might have been extreme to the point of lunacy just one or two years ago; since then, it has slowly began to dawn on creative professionals that technology, through machine learning, is promising to wipe out their fields, soon. I’ve recently published a book that should and — Allah wills it — will make the Hungarian literary circles shit bricks.
Ludditism, in the arts, is in! You heard it here first.
If you’re the opposite of a luddite, — may Allah have mercy on you — a Hungarian tech nerd, my relatively modest proposal would be amazing for you: suddenly a lot of services would have to be reimplemented domestically. Streaming, social media, all homegrown. Money and power to you, to us! It’s a radical idea, but not as malicious as it might look like at first sight, and it can give you a few good years before a jobless cartoonist eventually beheads you for being a technophile heretic.
Whichever scenario plays out, in order for our culture, identity and sanity to survive, we’ve got to do something radical, in Hungary, in Europe, because we’re running out of the Great Old Ones that can still show us an example of what it could be as they go out in a retrospective flash, one by one.
The year is 2022. Winnie the Pooh Girl is always only two taps away from free 4K midget porn on her personal internet device.
No one seems to care.
All gratification is instant. Adults and kids are addicted alike.
Ending on a positive note
While we might lose our culture, become completely Americanized in a virtual way, with very little hope of achieving it in real life, there’s a progressive movement that offers a solution, if not to all of us, to the top crop of our women.
One of America’s latest messages, imported by our very own social science importers (it’s not really a science) is that Sex👏Work👏is👏Real👏Work👏!
So ladies, in the colonies, in the Third World: feel liberated to become prostitutes! Doing so, you’ll be just as American as any other whore on Instagram or OnlyFans, even if those lucky ones happen to live in Los Angeles. The camera doesn’t care, it’s a free, global market that any dumb bitch can enter, today. Total equality, just a few clicks away.
I don’t mind it at all, on the contrary: as I hypothesized above, free sex is what delivered the final blow to European culture. Free pornography = misogyny, you heard it here first. So ladies, put those vagenes behind a paywall, help our renaissance come to fruition, and in the process, get rich!
The dream of living in America, in this form, is still alive, and easier to achieve than ever! You might not be the next Brigitte, not even the next Britney (although she’s pussy posting online like crazy lately, I won’t sully Brigitte’s post with that, look it up if you care), but you can earn good, hard currency, while watching the same Netflix as us, poor folk do, in your well earned downtime. The American Dream, as long as you’re fine with becoming a cam whore, is still on the table.
Happy European Culture Month!
The 22-year-old Brigitte Bardot, the most popular French stage and screen starlet, visited the home of one of the greatest artists of our time, the elderly Picasso. (Hungarian tabloid, 1957)
Yeah you know about Poe’s law, we all do, yet when I bring it up I get crickets more often than not. So:
Poe's law is an adage of Internet culture saying that, without a clear indicator of the author's intent, every parody of extreme views can be mistaken by some readers for a sincere expression of the views being parodied. (Wikipedia)
