Tagged: bro

Pulling the WOLF Over Our Eyes

This article also appeared on Noisey/VICE

For whatever reason, I’ve never been able to connect with the whole Odd Future movement. Maybe it’s because I don’t skateboard, am not filled with angst, or have ever considered myself an artsy-fartsy social-outcast. But I feel that when we look back on the “good old days” of music in the year 2050, Odd Future‘s ‘Kitten Kounter Kulture’ of 2010 and beyond will serve as a focal-point of the music scene that would go on the be xeroxed by many in an attempt to create a similar “movement” (see: A$AP Copy). What Tyler and Co. did for music collectives in a post Wu-Tang world is analogous to the Drake-ushered mixtape-buzz-circuit that we thought was impossible post 50 Cent.

In my opinion, the Odd Future collective is slightly above average at best. The entire idea of a group of unruly teens moshing into the game and becoming an injection of youthful vigor into a rapidly aging rap-scene was a solution to an imaginary problem, especially when we look at the strength of current 30+ year old rappers like Danny Brown and Gunplay. Nothing Odd Future did, from pasting cats onto tie-dye shirts to the constant anagramming of “WolfGang”, struck me as being particularly creative or funny, in spite of the hordes of poorly-dressed teenagers screaming otherwise. Empirically, what regular Future did in the last few years with his sing-gurgles can be considered much more “Odd” than the group of skater-kids trying to collectively sound like their favorite rappers while drawing dicks on everything.

While it’s true that media darling/Avenger of Chris Brown, Frank Ocean and underground darling/Brosef of Mac Miller, Earl the Sweatshirt were birthed from the murky swamp of Odd Future, front-man Tyler the Creator is the recipient of much of the group’s critical praise due to his lack of filter and knack for re-purposing Pharrell Phormulas in 2013. But just because Kanye West takes time out of his busy schedule of Keeping up with the Kardashians to update his website with Tyler’s creepy video doesn’t mean we should all follow suit and fall at his feet. I mean, how much does a Kanye co-sign mean when he’s given similar merit to the likes of such talentless containers as Theopilus London and the womb of Kim Kardashian?

Tyler’s new album ‘Wolf’ plays off as an attempt at staying in the cultural cross-hairs and remaining relevant in an attempt to sell clothing and beats instead of actually pushing the envelope like he did upon his arrival into the music scene years ago. It feels more like an attempt at appeasing his core fans by constantly putting out music to a group of die-hards who don’t really care about the quality, similar to what the Insane Crown Possee does, albeit with less warrants for their arrest (both groups do however hold yearly carnivals). Even in the sparse interviews leading up to the release, Tyler stressed that his true passion lay not in rapping, but in producing music, creating ridiculous television shows, and scoring movies. If I wanted to listen to an 18 song commercial for a show on Adult Swim, I would listen to Ice Cube’s ‘King Of The Hill’ on loop.

Just because your rap-hero tells you to shrug off brand names in the hopes that you’d wear his kitty-cat shirts and tries his hardest to be weird for the sake of rejecting any label that’s attempted to be put onto him, doesn’t mean that he’s uncategorizable. So when Tyler raps with a heavy baritone in an MF Doom style cadence over top of Neptunes-style jazzy strings and horns, is the end product greater than the sum of its parts? Or does it just seem that way because those parts were never meant to be combined? Is being different the only qualifier needed to be considered good? If so, here are some reviews in Haiku format which are SUPER DIFFERENT!

Over-thought intro
with confusing character
concepts. This is art?

Self-aware punchlines
and scare-tales about drug use
with forgotten friend

Lukewarm offensive
lyrics about getting fame
and coping with it

Teenage storybook
love tales built on fantasy
that girls like Tyler

Domo 23
Punchy horns, rigid
lyrics, recapping last year
and blasting boy-bands

Family issues
and overly personal
bars reach the children

More regaled tales of
yesteryear masked as likely
excuses for songs.

Nas wants relevance
but no more songs with Tyga.
Easy compromise.

When you have fans that
like you, life is hard. But don’t
worry, they’ll grow up.

Party Isn’t Over/Campfire/Bimmer
Three songs squeezed into
the amount of time it takes
for one of JT‘s

Conflicted love angst
featuring Tyler’s main love
interest, Pharrell

Hits back at bullies
with the aide of some blaring
sirens. Cool song bro.

Parking Lot
Trill, angry nonsense.
Half-clever metaphors and
more words from lost friends.

Mocking of the peers
over jazzy keys of life.
Who are these people?

Gunshots and trap sounds
to stunt and appeal to youths.
Who are these people?

Treehome 95
Airy chimes and horns
featuring the Magic Box.
Neo-Soul Asshole.

A buzzing shit-storm
with over-yelled chorus and
some lukewarm insults

Therapy on wax
with psychoanalysis
on top of the blues.

Hiding Your Shame in the 21st Century

This article has appeared on Crave & Points In Case

Technology continues to amaze me. Every year, our society is introduced to a new device capable of “accidentally” taking another compromising picture. In fact, the technology has gotten so good that you dont even need to send the picture for it to end up online anymore! Celebrities have demonstrated, some on a weekly basis, that dozens of private, spread-eagle portraits can be exposed by shady “hackers”. In times like these, even people Scarlet Johanssen cant count on the help of the FBI to catch these predators, so what are common peasants like you and I suppsed to do to keep our genital gems guarded?

Your first line of defense would be to disguise your unmentionables so that they can never be tied back to you. A short trip to the stag shop or your overly-friendly neighbour’s garage can reveal a wide array of berets and ascots that can adorn your member and hide any tell tale moles or battle scars. It’s hard enough to identify a woman based on her beaver, doubly so if it’s literally made to look like a beaver (complete with googly eyes, buck teeth and a thick pelt).

Paint is a popular choice for masquerading your manhood, but it should be given the proper attention. Forget every rule you’ve heard about putting something on your wiener and stay away from latex. Your goal is to be flirty, and it’s hard to do that when your urethra looks like Nicki Minaj’s lips, so opt for body paint. You can even have fun with it and make a theme: a Dragon Ball Z motif is popular with the fellas (Shenron around the shaft, balls at the base) while females can opt for a drawing of the Taylor Swift concert experience (complete with an airbrushed stage on the pelvis and a metric ton of glitter).

But sometimes a clever costume or a fresh coat of paint isn’t enough to keep your identity a secret. It’s times like these when you need to get creative with your presentation and more importantly, your transmittal. Take up a course in learning how to draw, preferably with charcoal, and then craft a replica of your lower half with the help of a hand mirror. This way, if it succeeds, your partner will have some 18th century mastubatory aid, but even if it gets intercepted you can bet that it will get lost among the hundreds of other charcol dick-drawings that are sent out in the mail every week. Sent by me.

Another altternative is ASCII art, since it can still be transmitted via modern means, albeit with a slight loss in detail. However, if your partner’s imagination is vivid enough, there’s no limit to the fun you two could have with a simple:
( . ) ( . )
…or maybe even a (())

However, the most effective way of keeping your titillating pictures off the web is to simply not send them to anyone who you may piss off in the future. This generally means that you’ll want to avoid people you have sex with, people who could one day become your “ex”, or anyone who could otherwise hold a grudge. So keep it a secret and send it to only your close friends and family. Your bro already saw your whacker that one time he walked in on you peeing, so obviously he wants a picture of it to carry around with him, and your mom already holds on to your passport for safe keeping, how is a picture of your front-tail any different?

A Resignation Letter from a Former Hipster

This article was also featured on Points In Case

The following is a resignation letter from the most respected man in a society as secretive as Skull and Bones and as influential as The Illuminati. It was found in a place where one would expect to find such a letter—in a very secretive place few people have access to (write your own fucking joke). I’ve wanted to put it in a place where nobody would ever look, so I’m posting it here:

If you’re reading this letter it means I’ve left this wretched society. Sure I loved the exclusive perks and god-like adoration, but enough is enough.

Perhaps I’ve gotten ahead of myself; “What society is this you speak of?” Oh, didn’t you know? There’s this thing called the Hipster Aristocacy, and it’s kind of a big deal. At least, it used to be…

I’ve been a part of the Aristocracy for about ten years. We always operate in secret, seeking out the coolest things before they’re even on the buzz radar of teenage girls in LA or angsty New York Jewish boys. I’ll never forget my first assignment: scoping out Justin Bieber’s baptism. Back then, we had an eye for talent, and I would serve loyally to the pursuit of “alt.” I was behind the rise, fall, plateau, plummet, and eventually skyrocketing success of Amy Winehouse’s career (I didn’t kill her, but we knew it was coming). But after all these years of trying to be on the cusp of edginess, I woke up this morning and realized, I’m mainstream. So today, I hang up my studded Vibrams and pursue another path.

We used to be able to keep a secret to ourselves. Sure we would tell the “peons” about the next big pop act, but we had our own indulgences. Do you know what I heard in the mall when I was getting my antique watch repaired? Mumford & Sons. IN THE MALL. How did we let that one spill, guys? How did the general public get a taste of our alt-juice? You “peons” may not know this, but we were actually on Twitter in 2001, before it even existed. It was a great way for us to communicate, but now every bro can, and has, leeched off our buzz by spying on our twittersations. And that’s just the music! I can’t even count how many times I walked into a bar last month and saw people drinking PBR unironically!

I’m not the only one choosing to leave, but I am the only one willing to admit we’ve gone “lamestream.” The others have their own subtle ways; just last week I saw Alabaster sneaking an iPod onto the castle grounds when he knows that we only allow the iRiver. Speaking of the castle, it doesn’t even look buzzworthy. When we first set it up in that gentrified ghetto it was just our kind, but years after kicking the poor people out we’re now faced with a stampede of SUVs and chain restaurants. Not only that, but the pastel wallpaper looks so January 2011 and the shag carpeting on the inside is trampled to bits. I blame Tiffany for putting mountain bike tires on her 10-speed so that she could get more traction. Everyone is secretly looking for work too. Rumour has it that Geophf even applied to Urban Outfitters and spelled his name “Jeff” on the resume.

Maybe it’s time to stop being so “alt” and take a step back. The gentrification was great while it lasted, and maybe being mainstream isn’t so bad; the Olive Garden they opened up down the block has great bread. No, it’s not kosher or gluten-free, but I don’t care anymore if my chest piece tattoo starts to sag with my man-boobs. I’ll just wear a shirt and tie every day; I have a closet full of knitted ties anyway and now that Justin fucking Timberlake wore one in that movie they’re mainstream, so I guess it all works out.

It’s kind of freeing, this feeling of being stale. I hope all my brothers and sisters follow me out of their ivory towers (literally) and wade into the lame, er…mainstream.

Forever yours,

Gabriael Coqurnilius

Open Mic Surgery

This article was also featured on Points In Case

Choosing a summer activity to pass these long days off can be difficult; you could fly kites, start a neighborhood dictatorship, do math, do meth, get a part-time job, get fired for doing meth in the back room, or have a baby. The world is your Cloyster. However, there may be nights when you find yourself in a dark, musty room no fire marshal has ever set foot in—in which case you’re probably at an open mic comedy show.

Stay calm; I’m here to help you.

The first thing you’ll want to do is find out what the cheapest brew in the bar is so you can stock up for the night. Since the laws of physics dictate that cheap beer reaches your bladder faster, the next step will be to scope out the crowd to see who will be performing so that you can comfortably pee.

There’s an angry bachelorette party near the stage that smells like White Diamonds and broken dreams. They’ll make it impossible for you to enjoy the night, but will make up for it by putting on their own show after the tequila settles and they start to cry and/or projectile vomit in the parking lot later. In the middle of the crowd is a table full of frat boys, either home for the few months of summer or left behind in a college town waiting for their friends to come back so they can have a sense of belonging again. Either way, they’ll probably heckle. If the bar you’re patronizing can’t afford a bouncer, or has hired someone who looks like Malcolm Gladwell to be the bouncer, then there’s a chance one of the bro-noceroses might rush the stage after they take a joke about their “whore of a mother” the wrong way.
But it’s not the crowd you’re interested in, it’s the “talent.”

Your first opportunity will come near the start, when the shameless self-promoter comes out. This guy will be easy to recognize thanks to his custom Twitter-handle t-shirt, and because the first two minutes of his set are dedicated to telling you about his name/website/PayPal account. There’s very little risk of getting called out when you leave since that would distract him from his carefully crafted LinkedIn joke. And since most of his routine will consist of talking about nothing but himself, you’re guaranteed not to miss anything of importance.

If your bladder is feeling brave and you decide to hold it, your next opportunity presents itself as the drunk female comic. Either a lifelong barista or hairstylist (NOT a hairdresser, motherfucker!), she brings nothing to the stage besides an eating problem (not the good kind) and a deep-seated hatred for her mother. You may have to ninja-crawl your way out of this one, because if she sees you leaving she will make a scene. And not even a funny scene where everyone has a chuckle at your expense and then goes on, a scene that will make every bridesmaid blush and have every frat boy closely examining the inside of his beer glass. All of her jokes will consist of sex, but since you can see what appears to be a tattoo of a pterodactyl on her lower stomach through her “sausage casing” dress, they come off as more gag-inducing than appealing.

Your last chance at urethral utopia comes toward the end of the show, when Mr. Can’t Stop Won’t Stop comes on. This guy has listened to every comedy podcast, has seen weeks’ worth of stand-up, and can perspire Seinfeld quotes… SO HE KNOWS WHAT’S FUNNY GODDAMNIT and you WILL listen to it!! So what if it’s his second time and he’s stolen all of his jokes from Tracy Morgan, HE’S A PROFESSIONAL COMEDIAN! You can get up to leave with ease since he’ll be too busy reading from his cell phone to notice; plus, he won’t know how to react since nobody has ever left one of his shows. Well, technically his dad went to get a snack at his first show, but since the fridge was in the living room it didn’t count.

Polytheism for the College Student

This article was also featured on Points In Case

If you had the displeasure of watching the Golden Globes this year, you would have seen Ricky Gervais deliver witty punch lines at the expense of celebrities (how dare he?!) all night long. But the shit really hit the fan when, at the end of the ceremonies Ricky said “I’d like to thank God for making me an atheist.”

The question of religion is almost as old as time itself but it’s only recently that we can openly question it without being beheaded or having stones thrown at us. As a college student, you are experiencing a very wonderful and mysterious time in your life; one where you can openly question your religion and even change or abandon it if you want to. Why would you do this? Here’s a quick list of reasons:

  1. You’re suffering from an existential crisis brought on by a heavily bearded philosophy professor.
  2. You read a few pages of your roommates Richard Dawkins book
  3. You want to piss off your religious parents without having to fear the consequences that come from living under the same roof as them.
  4. You are in possession of a lot of meat that needs to be sacrificed.

The problem with atheism is that it’s so 2009! That is where I come in.

Too long have we worshipped boring or jealous Gods that don’t turn into bulls and ravage young virgins. I think it’s time for a religious throwback and as such I’ve converted to Greco Polytheism: the worship of the Olympic Gods.
Life has never been easier; whenever I’m having a crisis with say, the ocean, I can simply pray to Poseidon to change the tides and I know that he’ll get around to it eventually. No more undirected prayers getting lost in the mail on the way to Jesus. How can Greco Polytheism benefit you in your daily college life?

Pray to: Dionysus
if you’re a: Frat Boy

Not only was he the God of wine, he was also the God of ‘fucking shit up’ and excersied that power often. He rode around on a jaguar and was prone to turning people into dolphins at whim. You should pray to him if you want to throw wicked parties, start some lust filled orgies, or if you’d like to keep you keg bottomless. Just hope that he doesn’t decide to show up, because then you’d have to deal with a horny bull all night long.

Pray to: Persephone
if you’re a: Drug Dealer

This goddess of the harvest will make sure that your basement greenhouse continues to provide you with bountiful and potent ‘crops’. Just make sure that you only pray to her during the spring-time months because during the winter she becomes Goddess of the Underworld and, as such, only deals with things like death and pestilence which can prove useful if you’re looking for a way to stop your nosy neighbour from asking about all those heat lamps you keep around.

Pray to: Aphrodite
If you’re a: Virgin

Have trouble meeting women? Do you get debilitating anxiety when a girl looks at you? Have no fear; if anyone can get you laid, it’s Aphrodite. Just shoot her a prayer and you’re guaranteed to get some sort of amorous affection directed towards you! Just find yourself a slab of ox meat, marinate it in its own blood for a day or so, leave it as a sacrifice. Then wait for the girls to come crawling.

Pray to: Apollo
if you’re a: Bro

Apollo was the local bro on Mount Olympus, seducing nymphs with his lyre (the Greek equivalent of the modern day acoustic guitar) killing dragons and worshiping the sun all day (i.e. tanning). As such, it makes sense to ask him for some help with stuff like curing a killer hangover, getting a perfectly even tan or getting rid of that weird rash that’s been on your inner thigh since Frosh Week.

That’s just a cross-section of what you can expect when you convert; some Gods are even in the business of smiting, a long lost art in today’s religion. So give Greco Polytheism a spin, it can’t be any more ridiculous then believing in a zombie sky wizards and while all your friends are worrying about their finals you can just relax knowing that Athena has your back. Just beware of wild bull rape.