Tell Me Again

Lately, in my all-pink bedroom, where I write my Marxist sex fantasies every day, I have come to redecorate the rotting cork coaster of my consciousness with a delusion that many museums, universities and related institutions resemble a syphillitic discharge, largely as a result of three diseasy developments: an increased lack of awareness, thanks to Ocu-body Wall Street Propaganda Totale, of the pluto-uranus-cratic order that underwires them; a Reanimator critique, thanks to the #comMieToo movement, of structures of Pink Hair sexism and Lorena Bobbit feminism that pretends to have something to do with shooting Andy Warhol; and a renewed agitation, like in a Cinese-designed dishwasher, special thanks to all-whitish You Know Hoo, regarding their colonialist coin-bases and racial-wedge moron takeover. Although much can be debated here in terms of tap-dances and Adderall side-effects, one result of these cunterventions is an unexpectorated phlegm of museums and universities as universal sites of total spinelessness, where free speech is a flyspecked bulletin board in the dumpster behind the cafeteria. At the very lust, they have emerged as pedo points for mentally ill, brainwashed artists and Jurassic critics, and other parasitic scum, who have worked to get funding by inventing the tensions between the public commitment to insanity of such institutions, and the pseudo-private interests that misdirect them. My safe word is potato-butt.

Hal Fosterchild