Let Me Tell You About A Porcupines Balls

Wednesday, May 2, 2012


We don't need to have the excruciating daily minutia of your life documented via half-thought-out cell phone photos, wrapped in several layers of indescribably dumb effects. In much the same way that electronic music is for those not musically inclined enough to work an instrument, Instagram is a tool allowing hipsters lacking the creativity and knowledge to substitute a bunch of clicks and whistles in lieu of photos containing real content.

Whatever, man. I was into shittily composed photographs before you and your popular ground-glass tripod camera came on the scene. You've debased the whole thing.

Allow me to walk you through a documented day of the average Instagram user.

You began the day by squeezing into the bathroom of your studio apartment, where you partially shave your scraggly and ridiculous looking beard, leaving a sink full of broken dreams and unkempt hair. You photograph this start to your day as you feel it properly illustrates the juxtaposition between your nonconformity and the fact that your parents said you'd never be able to hold a real job.

Now shaven, but still unshowered, you don your skinny jeans and pile into your free-trade, farm-fresh Smart car, and drive down to your job as a cashier at a local indie music store that sells 8-tracks exclusively, because they're under-appreciated and superior in every measurable way. Along the way you pause to capture a grasshopper on your windshield, which you think captures perfectly the futility and uncertainty of life.

At lunch, you share with the world the majesty that is your sustenance, comprised of piles of tofu hotdogs and hemp french fries (no potato insects were harmed in the making of these, you savage). You feel the need to share your disgusting food pile with the world because, like all vegetarians, you see no point in not eating animals if you can't broadcast that fact to the world at every given opportunity. Plus, you love the way the light reflects of the high fructose corn syrup; it reminds you of Christmas morning.

Several hours into your shift, you begin the ritual ceremony of exercising the tofu demons from your butt. Using your "artistic" skills as a cover for your latent perversions, you try sneaking a few under-stall shots of the man saddled up next to you. Convinced that one of them perfectly embodies your views on corporate America, you post it for all the world to see.

After a full day of slaving away at telling others how incorrect their musical tastes are, you head home. Upon arriving, you begin indulging in what has become your favorite pastime over the past few months: spending all night watching your cat take awful shits stemming from the vegan diet you've forced upon it. Of course, nature is simply too beautiful for you to not sepia tone the shit out of your cat shitting, and share it on the internet.

Sweet Christ, no one cares. Stop attempting to capture the "wonderment" around you.

The inventor of the camera is surely rolling over in his grave. Please consider not desecrating the dead the next time you want to share your quirky surroundings and Family Circus moments.