I can’t stop thinking about the “Sex Junk” video

Perhaps you’ve seen it.

This piece of sh*t is a week old and its faults have been thoroughly legislated by the internet commentariat at this point. I am not hauling this beast into the town square over my shoulder like it’s a fresh kill. I am just here to say… “Wow. can’t stop thinking about this thing.”

All week I have been laying in bed at my horrifying apartment getting devoured by scabies and unable to sleep, staring at the ceiling with this farting beat playing in my head, over and over. So much had to go wrong to make this happen.

People with authority had to hear the mic drop punch line “my sex junk is better than bagels with lox” at least a dozen times before the cameras were turned on—and nobody said anything. Before, during, or after. There was time. There was so much time.

The director, whom I assume came up in their career filming content for the QVC Network, tried to create a kinetic concert film experience and ended up producing a perfect simulacrum of a high-school auditorium midday assembly hostage situation, completely on accident.

An entire crew of professional filmmakers made the choice to stage this techno-wobble almost-dance with a minimum of set and props and a maximum of empty space, emphasizing flop sweat bleakness in absence of anything else. This was OK.

The editor, faced with a mountain of footage from this Nuremberg execution of a pop science presentation, decided it would be wise to incorporate the brief sequence of Bill Nye punching a laptop spacebar like he’s fucking Deadmau5, and no silent hero transferred that bit of footage from the edit to the trash.

Netflix, who put up the money for this and presumably had the ability to pull the plug, decided to go ahead with the delivery of its unviable baby, resulting in untold suffering for all who had to witness it. It was traumatic and unjust. Marriages were ruined.

William Nye, the scientist, did not watch the first 30 seconds of this and speedwalk TF to the parking lot for an unfiltered Camel and some perspective. This from a supposedly reasonable man. A man of science. A science guy.

The audience did what any of us would do in this situation—froze, stuck stock still and breathless, like innocents forced belly-down onto the cold tile of a bank during a robbery. They appear in this footage as our surrogates, damned avatars of douche chill. The backs of their unbobbing heads are haunting.

Ostensibly, I agree with pretty much everything and like everyone that’s going on here. That’s what makes this so uncomfortable. This is ostensibly a vision of a world I asked for, and it’s like looking in the mirror at your smile and seeing screaming Bloody Mary instead. I can’t stop thinking about this video. It is a curse that will outlive my mortal soul.

Take a Cotton to Fantastic Slights

The first thing I did when the Son of God materialized in my living room one night was take aim right between his eyes with a Tec-9 submachine gun. “Put up your hands, creep,” I told him. He responded by hovering in the air with arms outstretched, emitting warm light.

“What in hell is the meaning of this?” I asked him. “You weren’t invited. You’re a goddamn vampire—I have to let you in.”

“Do you know in your heart that I am Jesus Christ?”

“I had a feeling. Nice robe. You’ve come to kill me, haven’t you?”

“I am here to wash away your skepticism; I’m here to welcome you into the light of the LORD. I exist, Sarah. I Am.”

He spread out his hands full wingspan, emitting a golden glow. A gust of wind scented with the air from a far-off beach ruffled my hair, stinging my eyes; songbirds trilled; all around me I could hear a celestial chorus, angel voices, harmonizing in a language that I had never heard.

After a moment of the strange sensations, I cleared my throat. “This is all very impressive, but seeing as how everything you’re doing can be done with illusive stagecraft and trickery, I choose to believe this is an elaborate prank. And also, felony trespassing.”

“I am your one choice for salvation!”

At which point my trigger finger shivered and I blew off Jesus’ head. He hit the floor like a twenty-pound sack of rotten Idaho potatoes. The glow went out of him like that.

“Oh, Jesus!” I shouted to the room, suddenly empty. There’s something about the violent death of the only other person in the room to make you feel acutely aware of how utterly alone you are. How open to attack you are by, say, an air-to-sea high holy missile, which will probably be arriving imminently, as soon as the G-man hears you’ve killed his son.

Which only raises further questions. How does this message get relayed? There’s no witnesses. Does he already know? They’re the same person. Oh my lord, what if I just killed them both?

I peeked out the window and saw the fabric of the world dissolving, ripping apart from itself like wheat in a thresher. “Oh, fuck,” I said. “I’ve destroyed reality.”

At which point I put down the machine gun and began to perform CPR on Jesus. Blood spurted from his lower abdomen, where three bullets penetrated him below the ribcage. A fourth took off part of his ear, and a fifth one went into his eye. The other eye was staring, unfixed, and I was like, this motherfucker’s dead. And as I was breathing a rescue breath into his mouth, it occurred to me, hell, he’s come back from worse, right? Rome killed him last time, and Rome was friggin’ brutal.

Which reminded me of the Resurrection. Of course. I dipped a finger into the ashtray and drew a crude crucifix on my forehead, hoping this would stave off any possible attack from the Undead Risen Christ. And then I took the machine gun back into my grip. Backed a chair into a corner. Peered out the window, from behind the curtains, carefully. Outside, stars were blinking out of the night sky, leaving nothing but a yawning dome of infinite black. Well, no takesies-backsies. Excepting a few beautiful flowers indigenous to the island of Japan, this universe sucked dick. As it collapses, I empty my clip into the once-sheltering sky. Thus we surfboard into nonexistence. Friends, I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry. I hope you have time to grab a Bud Dry before the end, here, and forgive me. I simply know not what I do.

Photo Credit: Getty

 

kill me violently with a machine gun

The following is a work of fiction. Free association. When real events are described, they are moments long past. Many things in the text did not happen. It conceals no greater urgency, and is uncomfortable to read. 

Rip me limb from limb. I deserve to be destroyed.

Kill me violently with a machine gun. Everyone deserves to be killed.

Paint the commons with my viscera. Blast my guts into the wall.

The first thing you need to focus on upon waking is your own destruction. Implore to others. Stab me violently with knives. Run me through with rusted spears and polearms. Throw me off a tall building, or a short one, onto spikes. Lay me down in dark traffic. Hold me underneath the water.

“Drowning,” the psychiatrist said to me across the desk, reading back my own words, from all those years ago. “That would be a good way to go.”

My mom was twisting awkwardly next to me, unsure of how to receive the news that her creation had spoken of its own demise quite earnestly, at some point, with the woman across the desk.

“Do you remember saying that?”

I smile, not meanly. “Yeah.” It’s the only thing that I remember, the aspect that makes the memory click. I’d forgotten I had ever been here, otherwise. I was on a lot of drugs the last time I came here. I’ve remained on drugs a lot.

These things happen. I don’t remember things. I get flashes. Vomiting wood and plant matter in the headlights of Joel Wynn’s car, somewhere. Some curb, some space of land that exists only in my memory as an island, ending at the reaches of its light source, only mystery beyond.

Kill me violently with a machine gun… everyone deserves to be killed.

My body twisting in the bed beside my mother, eyes open, half here, half out. Lights up and the lack of hurt, the pragmatism of what is to be done right now, a voice on the phone that I don’t understand, words from my mouth they can’t either. It’s all so incredibly funny.

Everyone deserves to die. Especially me.

I wake up in the king bed next to my mother, turned away from me across a barrier of blankets cold and thick. The room feels like my childhood, hermetically sealed. There is a serene chill to her bedroom. There always has been, and I wake up to it now, remembering nothing. I know that she is sad. I don’t remember anything. I don’t feel anything at all.

I won’t recall this episode until some years later, when she mentions it to me, the pills that I was eating on the floor, my disorientation on the phone call. “You didn’t even know who you were talking to.”

“What? When was this?”

Didn’t remember. She carried that for two years, I never carried it at all. I left it in the bed. To this day, I don’t remember what the phone call was about.

These are what you call your medical emergencies, these little stretches where you stick your fist inside your chest and start to pick at the walls of your heart, with chipped nails. You get somewhere beyond navel-gazing. Your hand is up inside you. Pulling. Wrenching. Kill me or come loudly. What do I want? What do I want? Am I going to goddamn find it in here?

A rising heat of anxiety attack. Look up out the window, in horror, at the trees. They live peacefully. Swaying in a gentle breeze. They are watching you die.

In the coffeeshop I avoid catching my face in a reflection and ask myself if I ever think I’m going insane. And then I sip my coffee. There’s a moment of clarity. I say “yeah”, aloud.

This sort of thing happens all the time. I am always coming back from it. Back from the bathroom floor, the precipice, the haze. Hey, you should kill yourself! No, not now, later, later, that comes later… Calm down.

You’ve got so much left to do.

Photo Credit: Weapons Man