Jarett Kobek - Only Americans Burn in Hell

Donald J. Trump on Twitter was the ultimate tool of distraction.

Each day of Donald J. Trump’s Presidency, his administration dismantled some aspect of the federal government, terraforming America into a dystopian misery, but no one talked about it and very few media outlets gave it any coverage.

All anyone paid attention to was Donald J. Trump’s activity on Twitter, where he issued mean-spirited and stupid opinions about nonsense.

Concerned about Donald J. Trump stacking the federal bench with crypto-conservatives who believe that dinosaurs were made of chocolate pudding?

Shut the fuck up!

The President is upset about professional sports!

On Twitter!

Worried about nuclear war?

Who fucking cares?

The President called an actress ugly!

On Twitter!

Adam Leroux stayed away from Twitter.

But the multi-tentacled hivemind of global capitalism was nothing if not adaptable.

It had become necessary to enchain every human being with some form of social media. New platforms were being developed every minute of every day, attempting to unlock each individual mind.

In Adam Leroux’s case, it turned out that Instagram was the key.

And I could easily write some very long and possibly pithy descriptions of Instagram’s terrorist attack on female self-esteem, explaining how it had become the #1 destination on the Internet for plastic surgery disasters, for a plethora of fake asses, fake tits, hair removal, skin lightening, lip enhancements and Botox, and how female celebrities with certain physical features used their Instagram followers to advertise products that they’d been paid to hawk, and how the products were inevitably chemical warfare on the natural beauty of women, and how all of this was a sustained spiritual attack and how I myself know a handful of amazing people who’d gone haywire with plastic surgery inspired by Instagram.

But why bother with that?

Here is the simplest way to describe how awful Instagram was for women: it had weaponized yoga.

Instagram had created an environment where ridiculously blonde women from the ridiculous upper classes could flaunt their ridiculous lifestyles comprised of samosas and endless Caribbean vacations and could, somehow, wrap this excess of capitalism in a blanket of spirituality, photographs of Downward Dogs and Warrior Poses, the language of body-positive affirmation, and cloying truisms about the ability of anyone to achieve their dreams if they put enough effort and faith into the achievement of those dreams.

Yoga was one of the many weapons of mass destruction employed in Instagram’s terrorist war on women’s self-esteem.

A tool to bludgeon people with the things that they couldn’t have.

Impossible bodies, impossible wealth, impossible life.

If anything could have resisted, it was yoga.

Yoga was as old as the hills.

It was ancient technology. It was almost as old as Fairy Land. And it too had fallen.

It was like everything else on Instagram.

Just another weapon in a long war.

So don’t even ask about the fucking Kardashians.

Because heterosexuality is a bullshit con on women, the accidental byproduct of Instagram’s remorseless terrorist war was the even more remorseless arousal of Adam Leroux’s sexual desire.

His particular demesne was Instagram accounts belonging to women who were strippers in the city of Philadelphia.

Adam Leroux liked their fake asses, he liked their fake tits, he liked their fake lips, he liked their fake hair.

Say what you will about the strippers of Philadelphia, but they had a leg up when it came to Instagram. They’d done something nearly impossible.

They’d monetized their participation in Instagram’s terrorist war on women’s self-esteem.

Their primary motivation for using Instagram was to advertise to potential customers.

They posted pictures of themselves and alerted the world about which nights they’d be working the clubs.

Adam Leroux’s attention was an accidental byproduct of this monetization.

Adam Leroux had discovered these women in 2015 AD.

Using his own Instagram account, he had spent almost two years commenting on their photos.

Here are some of the choicer comments that Adam Leroux had posted to Instagram:

(1) bae i wanna crawl up in that a$$ like a small wood land animal and die

(2) would lick that pussy until u exploded just one taste its all im asking

(3) beautiful face bootiful body y wont u let me touch

(4) girl u got wot i need and wot i need is a$$ lol

(5) wont u let me show u a good time my hand to god above ill come to philly and teach u bout brotherly love and u can buy whatever u like

Adam Leroux had left thousands of these comments.

For some inexplicable reason, the dark magic of Fairly Land had left them unaffected.

The comments remained long after Leroux’s death.

He’d spent the last year of his life imagining that his literary output would be as the co-writer of Fuller’s memoir.

But the old man’s life and memory was gone.

This was Adam Leroux’s legacy.

Comments on Instagram that expressed his infinite and endless thirst for the surgically inflated buttocks of Philadelphia’s strippers.

Welcome to the future.

Being a serial killer, Rose Byrne was in her post-murder cool-down phase.

She was sleeping in the master bedroom.

Celia watched television.

The content that she saw was different than what had played on the woolen television of Fairy Land, where all of the programs had been pre-selected and pirated by the island’s more knowledgeable women.

The television on Fairy Land had focused on what the American liberal intelligentsia suggested was worth watching: shows from Netflix, from HBO, a select peppering of BBC, the Amazon.com adaptation of Chris Kraus’s I Love Dick , and some basic cable like Mad Men or Breaking Bad .

By contrast, sitting in the living room of the former Francis Fuller, there was no pre-selection. There was only what aired on television in the middle of an average day.

It was what Los Angeles produced for the 99.5 per cent of Americans who weren’t part of the country’s liberal intelligentsia.

Celia saw an episode of Judge Judy , in which a multimillionaire fake judge ritually abused the poor while adjudicating their small claims court cases.

She saw an episode of Dr. Phil , in which a multimillionaire fake therapist ritually abused the poor while oozing a synthetic variant of empathy.

She saw an episode of Family Feud , in which a multimillionaire comedian asked the poor to produce sexual innuendo in exchange for the promise of money.

She saw an episode of Laura Luke’s Paternity Court , in which a multimillionaire fake judge humiliated poor African-American women for engaging in the biological imperative of sex.

She saw an episode of Divorce Court , in which a multimillionaire fake judge convinced poor African-Americans that they should embrace the global hegemony by creating two consumer households where there had originally been one.

She saw an episode of Dr. Oz , in which a multimillionaire Turkish-American doctor hawked pseudoscience to the poor while embarrassing the fuck out of the five other Turkish people who lived in America.

She saw an episode of The Real , in which a group of multi-millionaire women from marginalized backgrounds pretended that their money hadn’t taken them past the Cash Horizon.

She saw an episode of TMZ Live , in which a multimillionaire lawyer/feudal lord encouraged his cow-eyed millennial vassals to explain the sexual dysfunction of Twitter celebrities.