As your derelict body heaves through prehistoric sludge, each subsequent relief is unceremoniously swallowed by the sediment that entrenches you. The thought of sinking into the putrid indiscriminate masses of concession collected below orbits your mind, at least serving to distract you from the laborious trudge you’ve embarked on. At last your pathetic squirming reaches its culmination as your footing fails. In that infinite expanse of catastrophe you hear whispers of Karaoke Queens, Window Shopping antics, Doctor Martens vitriol, Online Retail tactics, Dark Jester fit checks, Height Power functions, Eric Rohmer roleplay, hot Europeans, Spotify slavery, HR people, and style evolution. While caught in the swamps asphyxiating embrace you manage to gargle out a solemn “Nikki No”.
Your nostrils flare as its nasal connective tissue shrivels away from the surface membrane agitated by the all too familiar but never welcomed aroma of sterile detergent soaked halls. Incoherent howls emanate through a series of secure control doors while practiced hands dance about access pads ushering you towards the source of the mania. What lies before you possesses all cues of a care home for those afflicted by dementia. Between the penetrating shrill cries you make out conversation detailing The RealReal eating shit, Snowplow Goons totalling city bikes, leather pant dialectics, Cautionary Commonwealth announcements, French Foreign Legion musings, rise of Inceldom before your knees begin to buckle. As you stir from your catatonic state & begin to piece together what had transpired you can’t help to wonder why you’re looking down the other end of those same control doors.
Always trust a fella with a bible on their heart & Blender in their taskbar, or say sayeth Peri- our tortured first guest. In holy communion we prostrate ourselves between Ali’s asinine divine gesticulations. As we flick through this seasons almanac our eyes are gilded with truths gleaned from cumulative career Psychic damage, CNC Operator grind, the art of Tray Drifting, Cabinet Guy Forum rumination, Drain Gang drooling, Furry Economy speculation, Digital Art ascension, with a bout of AI Doomsaying to list a few passages in today's telos.
Eyes rolled back & limbs sprawled across a lino floor, a state not even a mother could love- is where we find ourselves in this cesspool of a podcast. Allow your axons to cook as the fit takes hold & we stammer sweet nothings about our begotten experiences on & off line. This episode we lament the existence of non-e-commerce Artists, despise trappings of online Fashion designer Cults, extrude destain for Drop Shipping culture, explore the semiotics of Fit authentication cops, plea for vigilance when cycling in shorts, relapse on our formative experiences before our spittle coated lips dry & we gargle out our favourite films.
