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UPSETTING DAY

Upsetting Day: The Beverly Hills Teens Hypnotism Episode

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Upsetting Day: Prime Mover 🌭

In the 1980s, we had one powerful comedy bit: partiers crash the squares. Got a stuffy graduation ceremony? Not with Coors Light you don’t, crack one open and there are bikini girls under those robes. Professors are playing frisbee with the mortarboards. The dean is breakdancing. Every hair metal video was about a rock band exploding through the wall of the DMV and forcing the secretly hot clerk to make out in front of the license machine. At the end her license photo would have the whole band in it, and she’d be certified to operate class D vehicles. But every once in a while a complete lunatic would get a hold of that bit and wildly misunderstand it. Let’s talk about Zodiac Mindwarp and The Love Reaction. Let’s do it because of the name, because they kick ass, because they might have been a parody of hair metal from inside hair metal at the peak of hair metal, and the only thing that’s crazier is if they weren’t – but mostly because nothing misunderstood ā€˜crashing the squares’ like their video for ā€œPrime Mover.ā€ 

The video opens with young women sleeping peacefully in a church, like total squares. Not one is doing a bikini kegstand, it’s utter bullshit. They’re all together in one giant room like a field hospital, so let’s assume they’re nuns in training. The alternative is that this is a Catholic girl’s school, and that’s far too horrifying to contemplate. This context is worrying enough, since anything a 1980s hair metal band is about to do to young nuns in training is something we once considered antics, and now realize was assault.

The roiling sky parts, and a rock ā€˜n roll zeppelin descends as ā€œPrime Moverā€ opens with Zodiac crooning ā€œyeeeeahhh yeah yeah yeahā€ in the same way David Lee Roth might, if he was being arrested on Drunk and Disorderly charges by a female police officer who bent over and the ass of her pants exploded revealing the thong beneath. It’s the herald riding ahead of an approaching crime, is what I’m saying. 

And it’s coming from Zodiac Mindwarp himself, who looks like he plays a rock Nazi in a burlesque retelling of Schindler’s List.

One of my favorite things is when a beam can do anything. Just a good all purpose beam, a beam for whatever you need. In ā€œPrime Mover,ā€ a laser is whatever you want it to be so long as you want Hepatitis B. 

Let’s explore the first thing lasers can do. Here’s a quiz: If you excite enough electrons in an optical material… 

You can create dirtbags!

Zodiac Mindwarp is the Wizard of Dirtbags, the mystical source from which the mighty Dirtbag River flows. If you ever have need of a dirtbag – if you have an unsoiled couch in the basement that needs soiling, if you have a teenage daughter you wish wished she wasn’t pregnant, if you have a cat that’s not addicted to heroin and no dirtbag dying in your laundry room because he shot up cat food, you call Zodiac Mindwarp the Dirtbag Wizard and all your problems will be solved.

I’ll let him speak for himself.

One of the things I admire most is efficient storytelling. Bloodsport can set up all of Bloodsport using only an 11-minute montage of insane nesting flashbacks, that’s a beautiful thing. Within seconds Zodiac Mindwarp establishes that he’s a rock ā€˜n roll fascist pervert with the mind of a child, and he will never prove himself wrong. It’s the shortest, most complete and nuanced warning a human being can issue short of talking about Web3.

The next lines are ā€œI came from the sky like a 747, I’m the bad boy baby I fell out of heavenā€ – hey, that’s exactly what happened in the video so far! This is one of those videos that just scene-for-scene depicts the song, like watching Sir Mix-A-Lot’s sign language translator shake her ass, which in sign language means ā€œshake that ass.ā€ The implication here is that ā€œPrime Mover,ā€ the song, is about the devil descending from space in a blimp to assault prospective nuns. That’s all it takes to be my favorite song ever and we’re not 30 seconds in. I can’t wait to see what the next lyrics are-

Oh, it was Chekhov’s Hat. Always believe a Nazi when they tell you they’re a Nazi. 

I’m not being fair. There’s important context here! For a time, rock ā€˜n roll was obsessed with Nazis. There was a window in the mid-1970s between WWII being so antiquated that the idea Nazis could make a comeback was ridiculous, and the comeback of the Nazis. It’s like how we can make 9/11 jokes today, but not two years from now when 11/9 happens. Ironically appropriating Naziism was an instant, easy way to rile up the older generation, and there ain’t nothin’ more rock ā€˜n roll than rilin’. It’s why this picture of David Bowie exists.

It looks like he has a skeleton hand, and maybe he did. That’s a very Bowie thing to do. But he’s actually giving the Nazi salute. In 1976, Bowie renamed himself the Thin White Duke and started romanticizing facism because it pissed off your grandpa, and also cocaine. Those are the same reasons The Ramones wrote a song that goes ā€œI’m a Nazi baby, I’m a Nazi, yes I am.ā€ God bless those pure and simple boys. So okay, within this window in the mid-1970s and with this specific cultural context, you can forgive a rock band making Nazi references. ā€œPrime Moverā€ was recorded twelve years after that window closed. 

No time to think about that there’s a NUN ABDUCTION!

The classic signs of impending alien abduction are clocks stopping, unexplained magnetism, and bright lights flooding the room. The sign of a Space Dirtbag abduction is when they drive a tank through your wall. 

I guess technically this is some kind of APC vehicle but if A, P, and C all stood for different, more vulgar things. Does an APC vehicle count as a van if you fill it with dirtbags? I would argue yes, but only if someone uses a Snickers wrapper and a rubber band as a condom inside it. 

Zodiac Mindwarp the Dirtbag Wizard explodes through a stained glass window singing-

Which is very worrying to the young nuns, but they don’t worry for long-

They accept death very quickly. 

Especially since the next line is ā€œyour lipstick flickers around my lightning rod.ā€ Again, such efficiency – the human brain is great at denial. If five dirtbags and the devil they worship destroy your bedroom with military hardware you’ll still manage to think ā€œI can get away, I can bargain with this, maybe they just want my money.ā€ If Trans Am Satan here arrives in a wave of flames promising napalm blowjobs, you know to start swallowing your fillings so the dental records won’t match that way mom and dad can harbor a little hope. 

I swear to god I didn’t know this had a hot dog reference in it. I caught a few key lyrics and the dirtbag laser show and I thought ā€œthis is for me; this is my art.ā€ But somehow the song already knew that. The amount of bizarre hot dog references in the things we cover makes me suspect some sort of timelost entity is begging for help, seeding wieners through garbage history, knowing one of you can save them with your secret ability to slip your lightning rod between worlds like the Subtle Knife. 

Anyway, everybody knows that when you excite the electrons in an optical material you can…

Oh, that one’s normal! Zodiac Mindwarp the Dirtbag Wizard can ignite fires on small objects, like a frightened teen’s teddy bear, but only when powered by a little hump first. 

It’s time for a heil Hitler break:

This accompanies the Sex Fuhrer line, in case you thought there was some kind of context that could save Sex Fuhrer. I forgot to mention that line is in the chorus and will be repeated several times, I guess that’s important too.

Let’s explore the next use of lasers: When you excite electrons in an optical material, every first year science student knows it-

Creates skanks. 

But ONLY when channeled through a climaxing guitar (every first year science student knows a solo is a guitar cumming). 

Let’s take a break from lasers and examine the practical uses of lightning. When the electrons in a cloud are attracted to protons at a lower point, any meteorologist can tell you what that means.

It means you can summon and control skanks.

The science here is very clear: a guitar solo can blast lasers that create skanks, but it can never control them. Those are wild skanks, and if left unchecked they will steal all the change from that bowl you keep on the table and insert your toothbrush into themselves, leaving you a note on a cocktail napkin that’s just a lipstick kiss with a cold sore imprint in it. A skank can only be controlled by Skank Lightning, and that’s a different branch of magic on the Dirtbag Skill Tree. You have to invest a lot of points in it, but at Dirtbag Level 45 you do get the ability to chain Skank Lightning, forcing any woman adjacent to a skank to save against Thrusting or take Pregnancy Damage.

Zodiac Mindwarp puts a little goof in his voice to call all the women disco reptiles and funky alligators, it’s wildly out of place in this song. But it’s necessary: We need a playful kind of innocence to break up the bizarre assaults; it’s a kind of molestation palate cleanser; it’s the thin slice of pickled ginger in between courses of power gropes and hair metal hitlers. 

Everything so far demonstrates an escalation in the ā€˜crashing the squares’ mentality. We should be defying the system, tossing boring books out the window, and getting sexy with repressed ladies. Instead we’re playing with fascism, we’re exploding teddy bears with eye lasers, and we’re threatening nuns with lightning blowjobs. ā€œPrime Moverā€ is following the ā€˜crash the squares’ template, just cranking everything up to cosmic horror levels. 

Now it’s time for the turn: The headmistress and two professors barge in on this – I guess it’s supposed to be a party, but it still scans as domestic terrorism. The teachers burst in to see what the ruckus is-

Wait, oh shit, they’re teachers! That means this was supposed to be a school the whole time, and all of these girls were supposed to be minors, and everything we’ve seen up until now, which was already many crimes, is now a different kind of crime prosecuted by a special unit. 

Okay the teachers charge in to kill the party! Remember: This is a 1980s rock ā€˜n roll video, and let’s further specify that it’s one involving magical lasers. There are only two things that can happen next: Either Zodiac Mindwarp the Dirtbag Wizard zaps the squares away to someplace they can’t handle, like a stripclub or the inside of an APC. Or he’s going to zap them all into attractive women, and they’ll join the party – the people they once were screaming inside their own brains for all eternity as they grind and lick men with visible diseases who taste like a gas station bathroom. 

So, let’s explore the next use of lasers: Everyone knows when you excite HOLY SHIT-

He just, he just murders them. He unleashes his full satanic might with no party filter and explodes their heads like they’re rookie scanners coming for the champ. Jesus Christ this violates every rule of the Party Accords of 1983. The finest rock lawyers in the world could never convince a party jury this was a shenanigan.

The tone of ā€œPrime Moverā€ was already way off, but it was like somebody taking Spuds McKenzie too far. ā€œWhoa! Spuds is here to party! That means everyone around us should be forced to party against their will, or be detained!ā€ It’s technically the road you should be driving on, you’re just going too fast. Straight up murdering everyone who stands in the way of partying is the second act turn in a horror movie about Spring Break. This is no longer Spuds McKenzie at all. ā€œWhoa, Spuds is here to party OH NO he’s mauling everyone who’s not partying!ā€ It’s technically the road you should be driving on, but you’re crashing a plane into it.

What’s next, how does a Dirtbag Wizard even escalate from here? Does Zodiac Mindwarp fly off in their rock balloon and nuke the site from orbit because it’s the only way to be sure no buzzkills survive?

Thank you for learning about my favorite music video.

…

Thanks to nanomano for the hot Hot Dog Tip!

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Seren, a level 60 Skankomancer with enchanted nips. 

If these images are borked, you can read this article and every other one on the much better in every way 1900HOTDOG.COM.

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UPSETTING DAY

Upsetting Day: Charmin’s Toilet Tunes

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Upsetting Day: Wuthering High 🌭

In 2015 James Caan did a Lifetime original movie produced by The Asylum called Wuthering High. I found out about this while covering the production of James Caan classic Undercover Grandpa and set it aside, assuming one day I would be in the mood to watch a sexy teen adaptation of a tragic gothic romance. That day never came. It turns out I will never be in the mood to watch James Caan’s Lifetime movie debut. So I sat down this weekend and took it all in anyway. It was different from any of the other Lifetime movies I’ve seen, which usually heavily involve the magic of Christmas.

I can’t help but imagine how disappointing this movie must have been for the younger cast members. I feel like there’s a scenario where they first learned they were going to be in a movie with Academy Awardā„¢ nominated actor, James Caan, and then that the movie was going to be on Lifetime. And produced by the makers of Sharknado. That’s like learning you’ve won the lottery, in Guam, where the lottery prizes are all poisonous snakes. Have you ever seen anything this unappealing?

The thing about taking Emily Bronte’s tale of obsession and multigenerational trauma and adapting it to the modern age is it seems really dumb. These kids could be playing XBOX instead of mentally torturing each other. Also, they didn’t have the time or the budget to display the generational aspect of the novel, so the main character Cathy is sort of a combination of two characters in the book, Catherine and her daughter Cathy. Also, instead of Heathcliff and Catherine growing up together, Heath and Cathy meet and fall in love in one day, but they’re so in love he digs up her grave and crawls in with her when she dies a week later. Again, in an era where God Of War requires 51 hours of playtime I just don’t see that happening. 

The movie opens with Cathy lying on the floor of her school, staring up at the ceiling. She explains how she’s never been the same since she found her mother dead of suicide. Now she mostly spends her time drawing pictures of her dead mother and flaming skulls while straddling a notebook on the floor of her high school art room. So haunted. So troubled.

Meanwhile, Heath, the bad boy, comes home from quitting his job by spray painting the words I QUIT onto a mirror and finds his family being deported to Mexico. He’s taken in by Cathy’s wealthy widowed father, who was also his mother’s boss. That’s the role James Caan plays with the energy and enthusiasm of Eeyore on Ambien. I’ve never seen someone look more tired in a movie, which does kind of work for the role. He makes a lot of stupid decisions you can write off as the character needing a nap.

Cathy and Heath immediately hit it off, and we get this weird scene where they have sex in a pantry that is cut with a monologue of Cathy telling Heath how much she misses her mom. We’re supposed to insinuate that they have bonded over their missing parents, which also made them very horny. Ok, sure, that sounds like teenagers, I guess?

Heath shows James Caan some very disturbing pictures Cathy drew of her mother with jewels coming out of a hole in her skull and he says, “Wow, that’s pretty good.” He’s so impressed by her talent and not worried about her at all! He’s so tired. 

Even though Cathy is rich, she doesn’t have a car for some reason, so she’s driven to school by her drug addicted older brother, Lee, in his Porsche. I guess James Caan didn’t want to sell the Porsche and buy two Toyota Hyundais for some reason? Since Lee is constantly drunk or high, he’s not a great chauffeur, and he and Heath have a fight about that, but Heath doesn’t fight back. He lets Lee kick his ass so he’ll get in trouble with their dad. Uh oh, this gothic romance hero might have a dark side.

Cathy and Heath get closer and grow more destructive, but the movie doesn’t know what two out of control teens would do to cause trouble. There’s a weird scene where they get yelled at for talking during health class, and Cathy starts ripping up her textbook while Heath yells, “do it, do it!” Then all the other kids in the class also rip up their books and start dancing around in the pages for some reason.

The movie meets the book at a few intervals, my favorite of which is Cathy being attacked and mauled by a pack of dogs. She’s trying to sneak Heath into a party at her friend’s house he wasn’t invited to, and the friends have a beautiful husky and an Australian cattle dog that each grab a limb and shake her like a polaroid picture.

This mauling is treated as pretty normal and inconsequential for the dogs or Cathy. Cathy’s friend Eddie patches her up, and she goes to his party, freshly mauled and ready to dance. She’s mad at Heath because her friends told him to leave after she got mauled, and he did. Also, he stole a bunch of stuff from her dad’s safe and blamed her brother, who then got sent to rehab. Lots of red flag behavior from this gothic romance hero.

We start to get some botched famous quotes from Wuthering Heights sprinkled into the movie, and it’s extremely obvious when they happen because all of a sudden the dialogue is good. As Cathy and Heath fight at the dog mauling party, Heath grabs Cathy away from Eddie and says, “If he loved you forever with everything he had, he couldn’t love you as much as I do in one day.” The quote from the book is, “If he loved you with all the power of his soul for a lifetime, he couldn’t love you as much as I do in a single day.” I respect that they made it just a little bit worse so it would fit the tone of the movie more. 

At this point, James Caan has made his one million dollars for three scenes, so he promptly exits the movie via heart attack offscreen. Conveniently, he leaves half of his money to Heath and half to Cathy so Lee can also exit the movie forever, which is great for budget reasons. For the last twenty minutes, this movie tosses out actors like it’s Kane in a Royal Rumble, a reference corrected by Sean during the copyediting process after I said “WWE cage match,” a type of wrestling event where you very specifically don’t throw people out.

Then the movie kicks into super speed because this plot is filling time between commercials for yogurt that makes you poop and medication that makes you stop pooping, and they need to fit a book’s worth of events into fifteen minutes. Heath first trashes Cathy’s former home by throwing a huge party at it she’s not invited to. He also starts hooking up with Cathy’s friend Bella and sits on a throne he found in her Cheesecake Factory-style house like he’s the king of the party. 

Then he gets upset when Cathy is mad at him for trashing her childhood home and kissing her friend, so he goes to Mexico to look for his mom but returns the very next scene momless. We never find out what happened there, and it’s never brought up again because compressing a book into a movie is hard, which is probably why The Asylum hasn’t tried this again. When you remove time and nuance from this story, it’s pretty much just hormonal kids doing very dumb and chaotic things. It’s Riverdale but less fun because there are no super powered dogs or organ harvesting cult leaders. One super powered dog could fix this whole movie!

While Heath is gone, Cathy gets together with her friend Eddie, but she’s still in love with Heath, so they have a big dramatic confrontation by the seaside. Now we know Cathy can swim. We’ve seen her play in the ocean, and jump into a pool, but for some reason, as she’s telling Heath she can’t stop loving him, a big wave comes and sweeps her out into the ocean. At least, I think that’s what was supposed to happen; it’s just a single cut to her in the middle of the ocean all of a sudden.

At Cathy’s funeral, we get another line from the original book. “Heath loved Cathy so much. I figure he’ll just want to stretch himself over the grave and die like a faithful dog.” These people have known each other for a week. It can’t have been more than one week in the timeline of this movie. Yet Heath does love Cathy so much that he digs up the grave and crawls into the casket with her, which is how the movie ends. 

I’m not going to lie, that is a pretty hardcore ending. Not quite as impactful as the lingering tragedy of Wuthering Heights, but for a bargain basement version I’m impressed that they even tried to compress crawling into the grave level obsession into an eighty minute movie. Still, it would have been better if they took the money for James Caan and allocated it to making the attack dogs talk and added just a dash of the Christmas spirit.

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UPSETTING DAY

Upsetting Day: Hate Mail from Cheerleaders

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UPSETTING DAY

Upsetting Day: The CCP Rap 🌭

The birth, sterilization, and death of slang is a fun cycle. According to my staff, ā€œbangerā€ has about two weeks left. I’m proud to bring you the last banger.

Wait, what’s that at the bottom?

I’m in.

Hip-hop and government go together like ice cream and rat poison: perfectly. My party playlist has two songs. The first is Streyer campaign anthem ā€œBack Dat Azz Up,ā€ a drowning candidate’s call to black lifeguards. If courting black voters with a twerk anthem sounds like a bad idea, you missed the peak of history. Juvenile rang in the American Empire’s retirement. The other song is ā€œThe Trailblazer,ā€ which celebrates the job opening.

Granted, I’m as biased as any Amnesty International donor. I’m still on a list for telling Dick Cheney to go hunting alone. So I’ll let CGTN introduce their work:

You might not be familiar with CGTN, since it’s banned in touchier countries. It’s a great channel for human interest stories and forced confessions. As an apocalypse junkie, finding a CGTN rap video is like combining Christmas and labor camp parole into one holiday.

First, note the gentle offer to install a state media app on your personal device. Privacy isn’t the issue– domestic tycoons harvested your SSN, nudes, and blood type ten years ago. We’re all ants on the world stage, beneath the notice of the giants wrestling overhead. But now you’re on an NSA list titled ā€œDangerous Morons.ā€ You’ll never get another job more important than scarecrow.

The copy marries cutesy marketing and ultranationalism. I’ll never find ā€œmeteoric riseā€ and ā€œgroove to the beatā€ in the same sentence again. Alone, marketing drones would say ā€œBored? Check out this fire command economics bop!ā€ Alone, ultranationalists would say ā€œä½ å€‘ēš„ę—¶ä»£å·²ēµęŸäŗ†ļ¼Œę±‰å ”ē˜¾å›å­å€‘ć€‚ä½ å€‘ēŽ°åœØč®Šęˆę°å…‹ę–Æę“¾ę“›ē”µå½±ēš„å·„åŽ‚ć€‚ā€* Together, they say we’re in for an amazing time.

*Your time is over, burger addicts. You are now a factory for Jack Sparrow films.

That said, the title gets a rose. ā€œThe Trailblazerā€ is killer branding. Difficult to promote in 32 second-language bars, but it has the right tone. Fans and critics of single-party surveillance states agree on one thing: it’s where we’re all headed. Let’s meet our stars:

Our first state poet is Forster Asare-Yeboah, a Ghana-born, U.K.-raised, Chengdu-enriched rapper. He’s internet-famous enough for 1.8 million Weibo followers, and normal-famous enough to rap in clubs. If that makes his presence here confusing, your soul is intact. Flee these benighted lands and return on Punching Day.

Forster’s the black part of our ā€œSino-African rap song,ā€ and way too mediocre for propaganda. You should be either too inept to take seriously (Rambo III) or too majestic to reject (Rambo: First Blood Part II). The American Sniper zone is dangerous. Audiences start asking which wars were officially declared, and what uranium cake was imaginary. You’ll never see a C+ Saudi drama about Jamal Khashoggi.

As you’ll soon see, free education is the luckiest card Forster could have drawn. It’s a natural 20. ā€œThere were less schools, and now there are moreā€ requires zero spin or disappearing actresses. So it’s odd that he whiffs it. I’ve heard more energetic eulogies. Forster makes the most absolute truth in this song sound like bullshit, before losing interest and skimming over surveillance-friendly tech.

As for motive, I get it. Forster likes life with a pool and without a cellmate. I’d cheerlead most despots for a PS4. That’s not a typo, I want to replay Bloodborne.

On to The Trailblazer’s thesis:

I love ā€œChina Made Itā€ on three levels. It’s not a total reversal, so it feels incomplete. I end up staring at the phrase like a punchline without a setup or nouns. It’s also a comeback to a dead joke, ten years too late to parry blonde pundits. We know that subpar imports start with nonexistent American budgets. Finally, it treats total manufacturing dominance like an old shame. Imagine a defiant German freestyle called ā€œPrinting Press These Nuts.ā€

The delivery here’s extra stilted, which fits a pet theory of mine. It’s pure conjecture, but I’m fucking right. There’s a lyrical quirk you’ll often find among low-tier black rappers on clean songs: awkward two-beat pauses or ad-libs. That’s withdrawal from using rap’s favorite filler.

It pops up here. Call me a madman. But somewhere on a CGTN hard drive, ā€œThe Trailblazer: Drill Mixā€ exists. When they release it, the future is theirs.

I’ve waited thirty years for this moment. The exact second the word ā€œhaterā€ entered international relations. There’s no undoing this. The seal is broken. Before the first bomb falls, an Indian diplomat will call a Pakistani general a dickrider. The CIA will contest the authenticity of Putin’s shoes. Mauritania will tell the world to ā€œemancipate some bitches.ā€

Don’t fight the spiral. Embrace it. President Curtis Jackson III is the right man to lead us into the new world. Diss diplomacy can’t be stopped, but it can be perfected. A man that won’t stop tormenting Ja Rule won’t stop fighting for you.

Enough of the first verse. That’s not why I’m here.

In 1999, Forgot About Dre introduced Eminem to black people, creating a crossover star. The Trailblazer does that for Saina, the world’s best propaganda rapper named Saina. We are living in her moment.

Listing ethnicity after every name is odd, but I’m sure that won’t matter later. We’re here for 16 bars of party dominance.

Breathe it in. Figuratively, especially if you’re in Beijing. Meet our generation’s Nas.

This woman is my fucking hero. She raps the way a twelve-year-old heelflips off a roof. You know she’ll shatter every bone in her body, and so does she. It changes nothing. She doesn’t give a shit. She has three seconds of midair footage before losing both knees forever, and she’s milking all of them.

Look into her eyes. I don’t have the social skills to tell you if she believes in this message. But she’s burning life force to sell it. The Minitrue agent directing asked her to take it down to twelve, and she called him a traitor. If Saina isn’t promoted to Head Rap Inquisitor, there’s no justice in the Jinping administration.

Why does she suck? Does she know she sucks? These are the questions of a hater. The party is creating a utopia where all bars have value. In The People’s Source, every album is Food & Liquor.

Take notes, Forster. That’s the electric enthusiasm I want to see when you lie to my face.

I’m sitting in Mother Nature’s greatest enemy, writing about her second greatest enemy. Quick question for everyone outside the arms race: when an American or Chinese outlet mentions climate change, do you want to choke us with our own plastic? It’s the old Eric Andre joke, only Hannibal Buress is ā€œevery island nation.ā€

Because of my backwards hater education, I’d worry about what historians would say. Saina knows there won’t be any. That lets her throw every ounce of nontalent in her body into each line.

Though I do wonder where a state media channel found a rap genius. Did they black-bag someone at a karaoke bar, or recruit internally?

I forgot that Hotdog jokes warp reality. Let’s try a little harder: It’d be hilarious if she did uncensored rap covers on her personal channel.

I’m definitely using this power for evil. My next article’s about the gut-busting time an overeducated shitposter became president, saved the biosphere, and reignited a lost love. And then Saina rapped about it. 

The cover is perfection itself, by the way. Like Tyshawn Jones, she throws her whole body into it and drops n-bombs at will. She’s also a fan of Saweetie, which she saves for the real heads on Facebook:

Those lyrics require a certain presence. Namely ā€œNot Saina.ā€ She delivers ā€œLow carbon China is realā€ and ā€œslide over my pantiesā€ with the same blank energy. And yes, the bombs keep falling:

I complain, but I love this era. Think of all the visionaries that made a Chinese reporter dropping American slurs for international paypigs possible. Archimedes. Cai Lun. Alan Turing. Saweetie. Shame about the Arctic, but this is an age of miracles.

Nothing could ruin this channel for me, except a propaganda tour through Xinjiang or WAIT NO FUCK–

That’s enough. Let’s get this under control. Otherwise we’ll end up with an Uyghur rapper blinking ā€œtortureā€ at the camera. I refuse to speak that evil into the garden of reality.

They wouldn’t. No one has the balls.

I’m back in. Let’s go to hell together, Sardar.

Our state-sponsored rap group has a confident mumbler and a loud lunatic. Meaning it’s time for a propaganda technician. That’s right, Sardar knows you’re allowed to rhyme two syllables. Strap in for the GZA of ethnic cleansing.

Oh man.

Lyrical spiritual miracles thrive with twisty language, engaging flows, and a hardcore antiestablishment ethos. This is a half-speed Dr. Seuss audiobook about loving the government. I’m glad he knows assonance exists, but rapwashing your own genocide needs a flow switch or two. Even the most Xanax’d preteen on BandCamp can churn out triplets. You have to go harder to convince me the cameraman’s unarmed.

Maybe I’m biased. Let’s try the Socratic method: Sardar, can nothing in Xinjiang stop anyone from being who they want to be? At this moment? In every U.N. report? Good propaganda appeals to and redirects reason. Bluntly saying two and two equal five leads to marching and aerodynamic bricks.

Maybe I should go easy on Sardar. When you’re invited to record a propaganda rap, the only answers are ā€œI’d love toā€ and ā€œSic Semper Tyrannis.ā€ Like Forster, he simply wants to eat nice food with solid fingers. But there’s an old French word for enablers of a purge: fuckface.

Beyond the body bags in the background? These lines still suck. ā€œBenefits from new policyā€ tastes like boot in every genre. Gojira could scream it backwards in 4/11 time and my brain would still reject it. 

If you pay attention, ā€œThe Trailblazerā€ has a few first draft mistakes. They’re tucked in the margins of the lyrics, beat production, shot selection, video editing, ethnic labels, the credits only listing Saina, leaving the comments open to American trolls, and concept. That’s the beauty of this genre: OpressionCore upgrades bugs from features to homegrown innovations. The Censorate is a lifetime appointment for fuckups.

Imagine revision in a propaganda studio. You can’t tell your manager ā€œFun idea, but the best rapper sounds like Ice Spice’s hostage tape. I know we flanked her with fluent English speakers, but what they have in adverbs they lose in corpse-like dispassion and youth ministry flow.ā€ You’ll do the reshoots in a labor camp, with your race on the corner of the screen.

Editing matters. Backspace separates 2002 and 2022 Rowling. My drafts are half Gundam jokes before my shock collar goes off. Worse yet, this track review had three pages about my dad. Thanks to revision, that love of authority is now graceful subtext.

Treasure your delete key. It’s a privilege, like your former Miranda Rights.

Shoutout to the party for letting me groove to the beat of their meteoric rise in street cred. Not that they needed it. Nothing’s more authentic than wanton violence, and the sterilization of Xinjiang Muslims is still–

image credit: Mo & Robots

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