Post Malone smiles, flashing his diamond-encrusted grills, and hands me the cat-o'-nine-tails, knowing that I'll self-flagellate in the name of Record Club. For fifty minutes he calls me "Hollywood" as I whip myself over and over. I am bleeding. The jeering throngs of onlookers cackle at my misery.
It's the crowds I'll remember most, the willing participants in this sick ritual. There are millions of them, a monolith, and they are all staring at Post Malone. Post doesn't flinch. He yells, every vocal echoing down a dark hallway. They exalt him, for he is the anointed one. He has Versace boxers covering his penis, after all.
The resistance is feeble; they scribble pathetic screeds on cave walls—"every song sounds the same." As if this will convince anyone that the emperor isn't wearing clothes. They know he is naked. They don't care. This is what they want. Their king is tattooed and sad. He tells you that he is worth millions, but if he can convince that he is also lonely, then he will stay on the throne. Subjects line up to present wads of cash for Post Malone to dry his tears.
The very worst thing about my predicament, that I am up on the stage, badly wounded, while Post Malone whispers sweet electrolarynx nothings into my ear over the whip's autotuned beat, over and over, the very worst part about it is that I feel like I'm all alone. There are just too many people who disagree with me. Millions of people cannot be wrong. I am wrong. I am always wrong. May god have mercy on my soul. Goodbye. I know. Wow.
GRADE: 1 puke out of 5
No comments:
Post a Comment