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.
