An interesting species that tends to frequent malls and movie theater complexes at night.

Teenie boppers are, essentially, teenagers whose entire lives revolve around:

  • Spending all their time trying to impress their peers,
  • What the latest "fashion" is so that it may be acquired,
  • Trying to look as "adult" as possible, (though they generally fail miserably)
  • Trying to attract as much attention as possible,
  • Putting down other people their age who don't adhere to their bizarre customs, and
  • Spending more money on clothing than most third-world countries' operating budget.
Years of study have not yet uncovered the reason why this species behaves as it does. Low self-esteem and rich parents are probable theories, however.

A BBQ, a party, a perfect event. Just the right mix of fun, friends, idle chatter and convoluted, fantastical ideas; debated as if they would be the important issues of tomorrow. A perfect shining moment. I’m wonderfully relaxed soaking up the enjoyment of everyone, it’s that sort of atmosphere. Everyone, even strangers are just going with it, relaxing and bouncing off each other in a brilliant way. Then I notice it. Everything is working in wondrous harmony and then it happens. A change of sorts, like a ripple passing over a still pond. Everything shifts and then is back as it was with no sign of the change present, but it has happened. And now the harmony is the tiniest bit out of sync and the ripples bouncing off the edges come back and hit each other and create more and more disturbance, throwing everything further and further out of sync. I look for the architect of this chaos and there she is.

A shining example of a human being; she’s gorgeous, the epitome of basic desire. Yet she radiates a vapid energy, an oxymoron personified. She sits there ensconced in the centre of the revelry demanding attention and giving nothing. I’m thinking, “this is just petty jealousy; she’s just pretty and getting attention, you immature fuck, get over it.” But I can’t. She just exudes mediocrity in every single facet of her existence. She personifies every vain, cruel, utterly ludicrous, weak, soulless, lifeless, commercial, sold-out, pointless, hated element of this world. She’s a purveyor of cliché and ignorance. “It’s not pretty enough. That’s not fashionable. Wouldn’t it be great if we all got on a reality TV show?” Her entire life is based on the reality provided by commercial TV and … nothing else. Yet she seems ‘popular’.

How? Why?

She’s a product of this toned down, lowest common denominator crap that floods the collective consciousness of society. And she’s brilliant at it. She obeys every trend; her clothes, her shoes, her alcoholic beverages are ‘hip’. Even the particular blend of adulterated black-American/anything-else-on-TV vernacular is stylish. What would she do if all the fallacies she bases her every action on were removed? If there were no mass media she could rely on to provide her with up to date trends and styles. Would she simply sit and stare, unable to talk as there would be nowhere to get her clichés from, no sitcoms to idolise and attempt to personify, no more Phoebe no more Rachel. How would she decide what to wear, how to act, if there was no more Hollywood stardom to idolise?


Why is this affecting me so much? How did I allow this Harpy to cause so much disruption in my life? It’s not my place to criticise this epitome of banality with her poor atrophied brain, so why am I doing so? Because the disorder this harpy is causing far outweighs her own worth, she shouldn’t have this much sway. The problem is she is not just a product but a producer as well. Those who fall for her mass produced siren’s song, believe that she is ‘cool’. “She’s just like something off TV.” By acting like the stereotypes she’s absorbed she promotes them, she’s increasing this insipid ‘Big Brother™’ reality. Convincing innocent people that they too can live just like a TV show. Convincing them that living like a TV show is not just a good thing, it’s a “Great Thing”™. She radiates this blistering, blinding nonsense that artificial life, fake emotion, theme music, melodramatic events, the whole show is a grand way to live.

She’s robbing these poor souls of their will, their brain, and their ability to think for themselves; to think at all, to learn through a means other than osmosis. My friends who were engaged in conversation mere minutes ago have wandered over and are now contributing to the prattle, the endless repetition of clichés and catch phrases. “You fools she’s sucking you in, don’t fall for it, she’ll make you one of them.” Nothing but an odd glance. Most of them didn’t even notice. “She’s a harpy, a freaking harpy.” I’m yelling now. People look but still ignore me, but I’ve distracted her, interrupted her flow of puerile banter and put ‘a downer’ on her day. She doesn’t understand what I mean, but her primitive aggression is wired well enough to comprehend an attack. She doesn’t react directly of course but instead directs her reactionary criticism to the small cadre that have wandered into her sphere of trite. “What a loser.” Her witty attack has cut me to the bone, so much so that I almost choke with laughter. “And what is he wearing anyway?” Under any other circumstances this sort of derision would make me roll on the ground laughing, but not now. Not when this perky maelstrom of pop was behind it. I’m going to socially castrate this little actor.

“Have you ever actually had an original thought in your life?”
(Not too threatening, I’ll just play with her at first)

“Look what is your problem man, you jealous?”

“The problem is the fact that you offer FUCKING NOTHING, you add nothing to life, you take up space, air and matter that can be better used.”
(Get deep at her, question the reason for her existence, yeah.)

She looked really, really offended.

“Well, you can just piss off; I didn’t do anything to you. I’m just being myself. And while you’re at it go get some new clothes. You look like a bum.”
(Now this was just rude, pretending that she had some sort of personality)

“Listen here, you demented, festering attempt at sentience, I don't want to be hostile. But I don't want to rot in an apathetic existence either. I would love to tolerate your existence, but you are just an imbecile. Underneath your skin and jewellery, behind that makeup over your eyes, you’re just scared, you’re fucking terrified. You’ve never thought for yourself and you’re just petrified to leave your womb. Your protective teat of everyone else, their actions, their thoughts. Hanging off like a lost scared child, yet casting aspersion and spitting slander at all you don’t understand. EVERYTHING. You don’t understand, inside of you is everything, but you cast it aside. You could accomplish so much; you could explore your mind. But you close it off, hoard it like a miser. Yet you deal in shit and pestilence, your gold and diamonds are my refuse, all that which should be discarded. You take everything and give nothing. You just suck and suck, getting all you can, like a filthy parasite. Hiding behind your mask of culture, you shield of social order. You’ve made me feel ugly, robbing me of compassion and peace, by flashing your banality at me like a prize. You’re responsible for slowing my evolution; you’re baggage that should be exorcised. You hobble the race, the planet EVERYTHING. You bring us to our knees and gloat at it. So I’ll no longer tolerate you and your dismal existence, just shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up,

shut up,

shut up,

shut up,

Shut up.”

….. Can breathe again. Regaining my head. What happened? Everyone’s staring. Let them, it felt so good to let it all out. Let her; let THEM know just what it is that’s wrong with them. The people crowded around me have all taken a couple of steps back. I’m left surrounded by a halo of fear and astonishment. She is shocked to her core. Whether she deserved it or not? I’m not to be the judge, looking at her now it’s not her fault, it’s her nature. She can’t help it, she cannot see. It’s sad really, not just for me and everyone else but for her as well. So tragically, pathetically, pitifully, hopelessly sad.

And that’s when it happened, that is when I noticed. The one person there who isn’t shocked, scared or bemused. He’s off in the corner, laughing. He is rolling on the floor laughing. He gets it, he understands why I did what I did and that’s why he’s laughing. He’s noticed what she blinded me from, that this, all of this as well as being terrible, is comical. It’s a sick joke but it most definitely is a joke, and I think he knows who it’s being played on. And so he’s laughing his arse off. He is almost choking on his own amusement. His entire body is wracked by brutal convulsions, so powerfully that he could be having a fit. But he’s not.

A lot of the inspiration (OK a line or two) for the final spew came from Tool songs. Notably Intolerance, bottom, and Undertow all from the album Undertow. Also Ticks & Leaches from Lateralus. Thank your particular deity for people like Maynard.

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