Effigy /ĕf′ə-jē/ noun
1. A crude figure or dummy representing a hated person or group.
2. A model or other object that represents someone, especially one of a hated person that is hanged or burned in a public place.
3. A Crude representation of someone, used as a focus for contempt or ridicule and often hung up or burnt in public:
ex. "Crowds marched through the streets carrying burning effigies of the [prior] president".
Effigies, Icons, and totems date back to 'Pre-History', and although the ancient Egyptians created some of the most bad-ass, handsome, and priceless effigies They didn't tend to burn anyone. -- It's fair to mention that a master-class in crispy dumb-shit misappropriation must go to the modern barbiturate fueled "Burning Man" Festival. Millennia before this past years' flooded fuck-fest & perhaps well prior to Mesopotamia, people have had an axe to grind with authority. Some may have torched their surrogate enemies in effigy -- While Burning Man (festival) is the formulaic fictional forgery of a druidic ritual -- It is proof that 'Authenticity's' late body was strangled, cremated, and laid to rest long ago by fantasy-fiction under the Thunderdome of the Innerwebs. However flammable you build your Mad-Maxian structure, a Big Fucking Balloon is more portable. Since the invention of silk, canvas, latex, and later Mylar, we've advanced inflatable technology to vilify our worst adversaries 30 feet above a chanting mob, (unfortunately most of that shit is now flame retardant.)
...Speaking of Retards...
What about the whole Burning Thing?..
While not being intrinsically cool or crispy, we often struggle with 'rational' v. 'make-believe'. We may fancy ourselves as fictional characters, projecting false competencies which today we don't really possess, while dwelling in a fictive construct we call "our reality", [See also: Social Media].
I, for instance, do not resemble that one Linked-in cover photo any longer, but I don't update it. Our new american pageant floats its figurative, fictive idols above everyone like obese Parade Balloons. Tethered to tiny human hands marching slowly below the protective dome or my WAN I.P. (See also MAC Address)... Normies (marginalized minions who blindly follow, see also: 'canon-fodder') struggle against gusty winds -- Bumping, and lolling, like drunks in sumo fat-suits... A tiny broken slave class which keeps wandering, holding up ludicrous swollen cartoon babies. [See also Zombies]... In this life -- Who wouldn't want to burn some shit to the ground? "I suppose the pay is good", one guy mutters as his shoulder yanks leftward, and another replies with a labored "Whew, fuck it's hot!", then a nod and a tired grunt. Occasionally the people required to suspend cartoon icons above the parade route, have an itch to scratch -- But they humbly hold on tight, squirming whilst idiots wave and jockey for a better view. Sickly sunburnt supporters who sucked at gym-class, safely dodge & bob their celebrity dirigible. All dressed up in slogan-wear to shame even Lollapalooza. All longing for an elusive signal. A sign... praise perhaps from their air-filled god. A nearby clown twists phallic balloons into elaborate shapes, and it would seem to the passer-by that everyone along the parade route is buying cheap glowing logo'd jetsam with government money. Asking the clown for a straight balloon was a non-starter.
All of this is figurative, I suppose you could say.
Insurrection, or Parade? -- Heathen Idolatry, or Ecumenical bake-sale?
Completely devoid of authenticity, they wear the same tired uniform -- A six-year wash-worn C.M.A. awards outfit, complete with cut-offs, or plain Carhartt's and a cap.
The occasional Outlier yells, "This fucking revolution is coming for you! -- (and) YOU MOTHERFUCKERS will be the first against the Wall!" ...
Nobody hears another zealot over the squelch of cultists hoisting their puffy baby aloft.
Occasionally the pageant slows, while support staff ask themselves "What the fuck am I doing here?" Short-lived self correction is quelled by the smell of Corn-Dogs, Port-o-Lets, and Diabetes, right before tossing a trash-can through a window.
Aligned with the desire to restore narrow-minded 50's 'Archie Bunker' doctrine. Racism, and fundamental fascism override any fleeting notion toward self-correction. Everyone just does this same bumbling zombie-wander forward, whether it be On-line, or In-line... They hold meaningless slogans, and a balloon on a leash as clever retort for misplaced rage. Most are wearing red hats, ordered from Alibaba -- Furiously flinging mildewed junk from Chinese cardboard into the crowd. Make America Magic Again, and again... MAMA. Same logo emblazoned upon their giant rusty orange balloon head, donning, a plume of yellow. A pasted swoop covering two thirds of its plastic hair plugs. Role Models..., sigh.
"My Life was real before the internet. My rage, my fears, my ambitions, and my desires came in knowable packages, which only needed to be opened". When the deliveries stopped, I filled my life with trash, and lost my grasp.
"Anger is an Energy" we suppose... But what is the motivation of the misinformed undereducated, (Normies) skipping work for unpaid racist cheerleading? Interviews reveal that most hold themselves culpable in sedition sentencing. -They still believe their last stab at the totem pole was stolen by a fiction called ANTIFA. When the carnival comes to town every fucking day, through a gap in the tent so small It takes a few fingers to zoom in, one is bound to forget which was their favorite attraction.
Under the Big Top, we fall in love amidst a cartoon of bizarre faded fantasies. We prize "reality TV", and Coke IS the real thing. Its a filthy orgy and nobody checked for surveillance. When you imagine back to when you were 7, and how you saw your life play out, or end... Few could say they saw this coming. Cultists, affixed to a fictive icon so surreal, so pornographic, so unaligned with its crowd, as to be alien, and forgiven for getting them convicted. Fewer can say that they'd imagined themselves striving for "likes" or praise in a subreddit about nonsensical venom, because few imagined themselves ever striving (To be a "Supporter"). Far fewer "supporters", imagined themselves in an actual cult -- But well... the same cadre of normies stormed the capitol, and the rest is history. Nobody brought their own agenda, Most were there for the ultimate seditious selfie... ''Supporters' (See also: Minion, Normie, Super-Fan, Lacky), conflated algorithmic agendas spun by social media with bored contempt bled into their dialyses. All the while their fictional super-hero sugar-daddy didn't have his own plan.
The end game was never an accomplishment -- Only to be popular!
Your adolescent Hollywood Crush was exaggerated, (of course it was). You know it is fact, that if you'd ever met your pin-up crush, (Eric Estrada perhaps) He'd soon tire of, and come to loath you too. Or soon enough you'd explore his/her dark side -- perhaps within a month?.. Short-lived idolatry doesn't retain the friendship you thought you'd forged. And so the poster comes down leaving tape and tack holes. This is why posters are cheap, and possibly why expedited Vegas Weddings are a real cash business, but also reasonably priced.
One does have to ink the deal before the fantasy fades in a wink. But, most crazy Cults are forever. Perhaps, this is why winning someone back, never fucking works. No real emotional or tangible capital is spent to recover the wayward ("day jus gone!")-- unless you are Patty Hearst. What is it with Cult leaders, that sticks so tenaciously to the tongue of the meek? Why do we recite, and buoy up belligerent balloons (fuckers), at the expense of our true tribe?, Our true selves? -- Escapism?
The chemistry of White frailty crystallizes in the void of positive role models.
Watching cartoons as a kid, was rather straightforward, advancing a classic Good v. Evil architecture. Today, evolutive Heroes and Villains are built more exaggerated & more grotesque, by the year. Fantastic and fleeting icons with sweet skills, seemed far better than the real people you'd bunk with. But isn't this the current landscape?, Awash with so called savants, super-heroes, charlatans, billionaires, and mega-villains? From the hijacked amygdala of video game and Marvel franchises, flows an Indulgent golden stream of lunatics who teach resentment via idolatry. ...And being a minion is so fuuucking easy, right? Our Current world is populated with similar exaggerated frenemies? All of them boasting enviable lecherous features which defy gravity & nature. Once meek super-heroes, with some sweet, if altruistic skills, became biopics of complicated inner turmoil; The mental and moral dilemmas deep within the psyche of homicidal Homelander. Our Idols are a smooth and sexy, nee pornographic version of the plain ordinary beige people we'd actually enjoy drinking light beer with. But, glossy Fakers, and retouched Fucktards get all the hits, make the clicks -- whilst we ordinary humans wish it so? I don't know any big celebrities personally, but I do know fake, and lame when I see it.
The Internet is an epic exercise in chaos -- A free-market enclosure chaperoned by spoiled children -- It's all a fucking cartoon.
My young hero worship may have been Bukowski, and Miller -- Yeats, and Bowie, but I always knew that they did not give a fuck about me, and these giants came from humble roots. The catalytic effect of positive role models works when we see ourselves within their own analog timelines, and when we see our upbringing as ordinary. There is no "Kool Lottery"!
Studying Graphic Novels in College (rounding out a liberal arts baccalaureate), informs the majority that what we imagine is Fiction, is exactly that... Didactic maybe, but false. What we pretend and what we believe share that gray space, just below the bleachers where bright paths may change, but never seem to. For effect, (perhaps) the internet has made a Porno out of nearly everything pure, wholesome, or altruistic. The Internet, lacks compassion, a compass, and a timeline. When you imagine the calendar, most people see an elongated flat disc, not unlike a clock face, and the months coordinate to ordinal compass headings. Oh, Hey shit! that's simple human shit! The Internet is an epic exercise in Chaos Theory -- A free market chaperoned by a few coddled kids tugging the strings of every balloon animal floating below its ozone. No clock, No Compass, No mooring Ball... It's all a fucking cartoon now, Everything -- And nobody is sitting far enough back from the TV to tell their fantasy from a polished turd. Stepping outside of their bubble to Storm the Capital was the first real thing anybody involved had done in years, or in decades, so it's no wonder they were excited!
(They even got permission slips from the President!)
Breathing only the base liquid of the World Wide Web, & of course Fox -- Can the truly idiotic be themselves? Be accountable? Can the misguided know choice? If Their fate is a vile silo, should people be forgiven for being stupid?
Today, within the bubble, Kids can't love anyone, because everyone is reprehensible as compared with their avatar. Youth cannot be intimate, because intimacy requires vulnerability. Nobody is ever wrong, because wrong requires googling alternative facts to right, and fiction is spun to counter bad reviews. Inside the Bubble, good cannot thrive. Each and every conceited twat float their own balloon up a rope in defiance of the real gravity beneath their gaming chair, which takes up a fuck-ton of space in here -- where a drought from anything clever... will strand most boats.
'Those who can't do -- Teach, ...and Those who cannot teach -- Teach Gym.
...And those who cannot teach Gym -- Well... They dress like a gym teacher and run for office. And while this may punctuate the average politician's credential [Jim Jordan, Ron DeSantis, Greg Abbott], it is no less frightening to regard powerful lawmakers, as that one Sadistic Detention Officer from "The Breakfast Club".
The rest of us may "Like" and "re-Tweet" what the cool kids are saying, if they still even repeat shit their parents once said... But if a person cannot write a sentence, they'll ask a chat-bot to plagiarize something. A fool may assume the great oracle of the internet is not the master of the aforementioned Muppets. A fool will simply mimic what they see in front of them, which is the Internet.
Your internet life is a social construct. We are all tightly packed within a massive Balloon-Effigy, waiting for the spark.
Authenticity is a strange currency. And while balloons are cheap, and easy to pop; the facade we never desire to sneak behind, has no wizard to speak of -- Just a racist algorithm pulling some strings. Celebrity is a totem, and like religion, or any cult, it requires consensus to build. Because there is no intrinsic cool person floating above all this, except perhaps Bowie, Prince, Hemingway, Kerouac... the lift to get that exaggerated inflatable animal above a crowd, isn't born by the celebrity puppet., but by the cult itself.
When I was a young Punk, with a handful of axes to grind, I'd had no real agenda. I'd invented larger issues to synthesize something blasé' to rally against, and I made mayhem from complacent mediocrity. Tedium, in the bored, lower-middle-class rust belt exaggerated my ubiquitous failures. The Government was surely to blame, perhaps a handy scapegoat. With a couple of safety pins through every appendage, we'd learned the blame game, to escape our own culpability. We also learned to dislike those in charge.
Today anger moves like a liquid through nearly everyone, and some of the dicks I ran with back when, are probably running shit now. I'd heard one was a mayor back home. All dick-heads take shade beneath a similar agenda. Evil oozes like plasma because everyone has given up trying to be their best version. At 6 years old Spider man would swing in and throttle the bad guys, and today, (yawn, he may be busy playing a video game); But he too has a dark side. The darkness of the societal alter-ego consumes even the happy-meal version with "Venom" The Bad Spidey. So it isn't surprising that the Evil Spider Man is Black, right?. Through this lens we can empathize with a billion disenfranchised late comers to the early 80's version of my adolescent discontentment with government. What happens when all of those sporto-orphans ignored by their daddies, grow up?
Ron Fucking De Santis. That's what happens.
The closer you are to your enemy, the harder it is to hate them.
A pin-drop..., as with any energy, never entirely fades away -- quiet as it seems. The words we speak never leave the universe, so it's best to say something nice now and again. Our Background noise never vanishes, and our long sustained reverb of angst, builds a headwater of hate. Matching this sustained disdain with the eternity of the internet, produces an evil ooze like the Manhattan sewer in "Ghost Busters" V.1. The fact is that the collective rage of NYC in that original Comedy, is likely also the fault of Donald J Trump. (Did he do a cameo in that?) Too many motherfuckers who just can't seem to apply themselves to anything good, back-stock bugout shelves with bullets, bourbon, rage, spite, porn, candy and cigarettes. So let's add a bad diet to the anthropological record. Research proves that Trauma, and perhaps evil may build like plaques within us and it is passed on like archetypes through successive generations. Its then not surprising that my Brother read on the internet someplace that It's his sibling's and even his ancestor's, fault should he become a fuck-up. To me that seems like a cop-out, but...As you may know, the internet is always right. The dam cracked along the headwater of hatred, c. 2015, or perhaps earlier and the drug-fueled carnivores, with guns now run everything. ...from the Supreme Court, to the State of Florida, to the strings of the Balloon Animals.
"Maybe next time I'll stay home", he thinks. But you never do. This momentary doubt called self-conscience often creeps up along the parade route, but second thoughts are for pussies, and are suppressed by the crowd's collective and spectacular envy for the darker attributes which we ourselves lack... Jump in the Mosh Pit. Courage, Faith, Kindness, and Consideration Shimmer in the bartender's braces, and in that shiny sequin number who just walked by exposing too much cheek. But, It's not real. The schism, which my other brother balances upon -- Where one leg or arm touches something beautiful, and the other holds a rock, is Today's mental health crisis. It could be a beautiful rock just the same, but Fuck it, , he yells and throws it. The "Fuck Trump" hats we cannot or do not order on Amazon, and the courage we cannot muster to rally against bad fuckers, and evil, for some lofty semantic or moral courage. The "Liberals", (lacking balls), give free license to bad bitches like Marjorie to poison it for everyone. An Idolatry of idiots with zero scruples, and less shame is at the pulpit preaching to pews full of brainwashed children. If we cannot be cool, we find false prophets to worship. Plenty freshly minted idiots on toxic diets of news and Red-Bull, become wayward zombies which gain mass and momentum. We want to be like that good person, but nobody wants to put in the work to prevent your friend from turning. So we look for short-cuts: Diets, Drugs, Vitamins, Elective Surgeries, and perhaps we even get a Maltipoo, or a Corgi... But while we keep doing stupid or senseless things for acceptance, We give a nod to the narcissist, diddle the dictator, and blow the boss -- Afterall, we seek their praise, Today, truthfully, we have nothing better to do since leaving the Church.
Our Idolatry in neutral, whilst picking off people in First-Person shooter burns the clock waiting for our chance to sit on the Orange Santa's Lap. Filled with rage, envy, and adavan, we worship the wrong cause. Truthfully nobody's had an original thought since that "one thing" which got them arrested in High School, and any cause, however horrible seems to be better than just sitting around.
Heroic, fat, and filled with warm air, our iconic giant balloon-headed cartoon god shines cynically down from the parade upon its sheepish supporters. New Boosters arrive by the minute, some marveling in a colored smoke-filled pageant Some skeptical that it's handlers may drift and bump a street-lamp or pop their prophylactic Messiah. Some just hoping an loathsome shooter in the crowd won't take aim at its worshippers. Most not speaking their dark desire; wishing, "...A bullet will pop that fat-fuck balloon", so we can all let go of these cursed ropes, and...." "BLAM!!"
The 80's Mosh Pit served the lost, the angry, and the disenfranchised with a vent. A small valve in the angry balloon which will soon explode, or lay flaccid on a beautiful beach someplace. Perhaps the gulf coast.
The path your one friend took a few years back which entreated a vote for a lunatic, fractured more than just your friendship. Draconian pathways to stem "the Numbers" made them invest in white sanctuary cities, and so now as "Supporters", or "Normies" they too are fully vested in the Red Pill Club. On the Rupert side of the iron curtain it is in fact so dark that one cannot see their hands upon holsters. You can forget about pretending that they are OK, or that a relo to a temporary condo in FL is well ...temporary. They are no longer your friend. It may be safe to say that anybody who moved off the cuff to FLA (even the elderly) between 2018 and 2022 may have lost their marbles.
What this magnificent parade needs today is to unplug, to cross the streams, and perhaps a trunk-full of marbles, and some good old fashioned 80's punk. Could a mosh pit, vent sufficient steam? Deer Hunting, in lieu of a school? Could Burning an effigy of ones enemies, or several for that matter, provide sufficient surrogacy for vengeance?
Happiness, Is most likely a decision we can make.
This Halloween, if you have nothing nice to say, and are considering a violent coup, perhaps tap into your pagan past. As daylight dwindles, put on a punk playlist, stuff some old pants, and a hoodie with recycled Amazon trash, pin a name on it and fire it up.
Age and Treachery will overcome youth and skill.