Friday 4 January 2013

Jabba the Slut against the world


An inexplicable phenomenon is overtaking redneck America. That phenomenon comes in the form of one miniature, yet vastly porcine, individual who goes by the name “Honey Boo.”

This six-year-old beauty pageant winner, whose success is inarguably down to having eaten the competition, is gracing the television screens of buck-toothed hillbillies trailer wide.

She appears alongside confusingly related co-stars, including a 17-year-old cousin-sister, who Honey lovingly describes as “the pregnantest” member of her abhorrent tribe, and a mother suggestive that someone not so far down the line indulged in an extra-marital affair with Jabba the Hut.

                                   
You get the gist. 

Witnessing this atrocity last night on a countdown show of “the best and worst of 2012,” saw returning to the forefront of my mind a theory that is now posing a present and real threat to the future of humanity.

Darwin’s theory of evolution is reversing, devolution is rife, and there’s NOTHING we can do to stop it.

While the intelligent are waiting longer to ensure their offspring are conceived with an adequate prospective partner, the likes of Honey Boo and other DNA test chat-show fodder are presenting themselves to anything sporting a penis and a bottle of super strength cider from the moment they can toddle.

Big cities are still relatively safe but stray out into any seaside town north of London and it is possible to see devolution in its irreversible throws.

Recently taking the train from Preston in the general direction of Blackpool was a harrowing experience.

Not even lunchtime on a weekday and I’m confronted with scantily lycra-clad forty-something’s sporting glitzy cowboy hats and enough overhang to catch in their six-inch white patent stilettos. Each clutching a bottle of blue WKD.

Boarding the train I enter a scene I imagine not dissimilar to the waiting room for contestants seeking their five minutes of fame on the Jeremy Kyle Show.

My annual duty visit to the Brighton of the North is like taking a time machine to the Neanderthal age and beyond. Pyjama clad mothers sporting greased hair, mouths that naturally hang open and skin suggestive of a 40-a-day super-strength cigarette addiction waddle along using pushchairs, containing their eight-year-old Gregg’s pasty munching offspring, as walking aids.

Congregating outside the DSS office, magistrates’ court, Poundland and other local hotspots, there is little point to their existence.

And cult TV show: “Blackpool 999 what’s your emergency?” showcases those headed to the next extreme, including one nicotine-stained being, gender undisclosed, which never leaves it bed.

Soon there’ll be no professionals, no labourers, there won’t be any workers at all. Just a stream of zombies queuing up at midnight to collect their giro from a bank of money borrowed from fuck knows where.

But how could Darwin possibly have known that years down the line a steadily rising population would opt to spend the entirety of their existence slowly moulding into a sofa, eating additive riddled ready meals and obliterating what little gray matter remains with cut-price vodka and reality TV?

Compulsory euthanasia versus sterilisation? Let the debate begin.






2 comments:

  1. You should work for Visit Blackpool!

    ReplyDelete
  2. Since the tourism industry has died and they now pay the majority of people £70 a week to live there the only way is up.

    ReplyDelete