Mark Fuck

The mon­u­men­tal amount of unsub­stan­ti­at­ed gos­sip and con­jec­ture enabled every day by Face­book is lethal to the human intel­lect. Can fire be fought with fire?

Today, after posit­ing on whether or not a pas­try was in fact the name­sake of the bat­tle­ship Bis­mar­ck, I was told by its own­er — a local woman of a far-from-excus­able age — that “[I] should be on that big bang show.” Upon such fuck­ery, I looked her in her eyes and informed her that she’d just changed my plans for the night: I was now going to go home, wrap my lips around the bar­rel of my Beretta, and blow my brains out. I should’ve known bet­ter than to so jest with a boomer imme­di­ate­ly after receiv­ing such glar­ing indi­ca­tors of min­i­mal intel­lec­tu­al func­tion, but I fell for the hope — as I often do, to no avail — that such a jar­ring reac­tion would encour­age reflec­tion on her foul, trag­i­cal­ly mis­led sen­ti­ments regard­ing the gen­er­al state of youth, and per­haps even spare a peer or two from future tribu­la­tion.
 
Instead, she called the police.
 
Three round cops found me, an hour lat­er, approach­ing hes­i­tant­ly. Strange­ly enough, they were chuck­ling — maybe to a lit­tle joke about all the recent hub­bub on the radio cov­er­ing a recent wave of bla­tant­ly neg­li­gent med­ical care in Amer­i­can pris­ons, though I hope ner­vous laugh­ter is just SOP when respond­ing to a sui­cide threat. As all Colum­bia cops always are toward me, they were aggra­vat­ing­ly gen­uine and hilar­i­ous­ly under­stand­ing.
 
I began by sim­ply recre­at­ing my inter­ac­tion with their sum­mon­er, quot­ing her word-for-word, and — I swear to my new Lord — all three imme­di­ate­ly released a choral “ohh­h­hh” in uni­son. I’ll nev­er know for sure if they actu­al­ly assim­i­lat­ed the real­i­ty of the sit­u­a­tion so quick­ly, but it’d cer­tain­ly seem that way.
 
Clear­ly, I should’ve threat­ened her life.
Despite the day-to-day expres­sion of our recur­ring wis­doms, habits, instincts, pat­terns and cycles of cul­tur­al meta­mor­pho­sis in the dis­course, the stream of “well, you know they were sayin’ the world was going to end when I was in ele­men­tary school” to my ear has fall­en abrupt­ly silent since the inau­gu­ra­tion. Our par­ents and grand­par­ents are both impos­si­bly for­tu­nate and unfor­tu­nate, hav­ing to duck out as the most mul­ti­plica­tive (read: sick­est) cere­bral orgy in the his­to­ry of mankind will just’ve begun nib­bling on the slope to its cli­max. We’ll be lucky if we’ll still be able to artic­u­late our good­byes by the time they reach the door. Non­sense does a fuckin num­ber on per­ceived wis­dom, but the gaps are widen­ing at a dan­ger­ous pace. Tec­ton­ic or domes­tic, we are all strad­dling expand­ing space, and the chill of its draft is now steal­ing too much of our heat to ignore.
Though it is enter­tain­ing in the moment (and oth­er­wise redun­dant,) it would not be well-to-do of me now — nor was it, then — to leave the con­ver­sa­tion in edgy absur­di­ty. Yes, a part of me would like to cam­paign for Shel­don to be reclas­si­fied as an exple­tive, in dis­gust, but I must — as an adult in all-out sprint to make up for stalled emo­tion­al devel­op­ment — note that such a dis­play of con­cern should’ve been at least rec­i­p­ro­cat­ed with a bit of expla­na­tion, if not appre­ci­a­tion, though I won’t con­done wast­ing pub­lic employ­ee time for a mis­un­der­stood retort from a com­plete stranger.
 
It’s not news — the The­o­ry is pro­vid­ing some ghoul­ish­ly skewed por­tray­al of less-than-forty pseudoin­tel­lec­tu­als. Though my savior’s time is obvi­ous­ly worth very lit­tle to her, the fact that she spent any quan­ti­ty of any­thing at all engag­ing with even a decid­ed­ly main­stream gen­er­a­tional­ly ambas­sado­r­i­al bridge could be regard­ed — if stretched — as the result of a curi­ous seed, which has sky­rock­et­ed in human val­ue, as of late. It is undis­cour­agable. Read the trail a bit, and you’ll find that your frus­tra­tion is sim­ply an expres­sion of the ter­ror that’s ignit­ed by the stag­nan­cy of their pace.
 
It’s great that you’ve man­aged to inch over to mod­ern-ish sit­coms from Judge Judy and Inde­pen­dence Day, mom, but you’re gonna have to real­ly pick up the pace and work on fol­low­ing a few body mod­i­fi­ca­tion com­mu­ni­ties on the dark­net.
 
If an absence of solu­tions are the crux of the blog, here I’m now gloat­ing.
 
To whom does the com­mon­er look to for such solu­tions when they’d pre­fer not to ter­ror­ize their kooky mid­dle-age par­ents into a half cen­tu­ry of bru­tal fast­ing under vows of silence?
 
The Big Thinkers!
The Men of the Hour.
 
Yes, men. All Big Bum­bling Bil­lion­aire Imbe­ciles. 
 
Elon Musk can­not be the Nico­la Tes­la of the 21st cen­tu­ry, or even the 20th, for that mat­ter, because lit­er­al­ly every mechan­i­cal­ly-mind­ed pro­fes­sion­al I’ve ever heard talk about bat­tery tech­nol­o­gy has con­demned it in some man­ner as an inescapable dead end, devel­op­men­tal­ly. Per­haps, then, the cham­pi­on of elec­tro­chem­i­cal stor­age is the False Prophet.
 
No, I’m not capa­ble of cit­ing research or con­jur­ing Mars-capa­ble space­craft, but I’ve been a bit too pre­oc­cu­pied with my country’s class war and its 10% adult illit­er­a­cy rate. It’s all well and good to be privy to roman­ti­cism, but it’s not the 1960s any­more. Even Howard Hugh­es would be more con­cerned for the well­ness of the species than our con­tin­ued reach for the stars, were he still alive.
 
Well. Maybe not…
 
Charles Lind­bergh would be, though.

We spent the 1990s prepar­ing to rid our­selves of his­to­ry because the smartest among us fore­saw some fac­sim­i­le of the renais­sance we are cur­rent­ly expe­ri­enc­ing. If they’d been shown a glimpse of some sta­tis­tics on the vol­ume of media we con­sume, they’d exclaim of their pride — no doubt — in their species’ capa­bil­i­ty to progress, and per­haps even their own con­tri­bu­tion to it. How­ev­er, extend­ed obser­va­tion of an aver­age American’s day-to-day life would be lament­ed, in dis­gust, and a huge por­tion of the blame can be placed on one t-shirt-tout­ing cyberyokel:
Mark Zucker­berg.

His name is stu­pid, his spawn is ruin­ing my life, and he con­tin­ues to insist upon say­ing shit that fright­ens the beje­sus out of me.

Zuck­brain is fuck­ing scary.

Wiring the globe” is fuck­ing scary.

Jarvis is fuck­ing scary.

But Fuck, him­self wouldn’t be intim­i­dat­ing with­out his mon­ey. The scari­est bit is the lack of class in the crit­i­cisms of his intel­lec­tu­al influ­ence. Farhad Manjoo’s atten­tion has been dili­gent and pre­mi­um as a Timeser’s should be, but the same occu­pa­tion bars him from author­ing with the col­or of unsub­stan­ti­at­ed claims.

Mine does not.

Elon Musk is not an apolo­getic genius. He’s will­ing to joke about his intel­lec­tu­al dis­tance from the plan­et and its pop­u­lace on Twit­ter. Appar­ent­ly, his mind’s even sur­passed the need to punc­tu­ate. Crazy.
 
Google is well on it’s way to becom­ing the neo-Vat­i­can… yada yada yada, but they’re too far gone — I do not have the exper­tise to address them. Fuck, though, is a sin­gu­lar short-sleeved, Even Stevens-haired young man with­out so much as pri­vate office space (even though his sen­ti­ments on breath­ing room at home are obvi­ous­ly inverse.)
 
Clear­ly, it’s all just to pro­tect him from the truth:
The Apos­tle John’s Book of Rev­e­la­tion is about Face­book.
 
Fuck’s cyber­child is the horse­man, the beasts, and the plagues, stuffed into one tyran­ni­cal web­site.
And the smoke of their tor­ment ascen­deth up for ever and ever: and they have no rest day nor night, who wor­ship the beast and his image, and whoso­ev­er receiveth the mark of his name.
If I can repeat­ed­ly trig­ger acci­den­tal voice calls on Fuck­book Mes­sen­ger, don’t tell me it’s not pos­si­ble to inad­ver­tent­ly live stream myself on the pot.
The beast that thou sawest was, and is not; and shall ascend out of the bot­tom­less pit, and go into perdi­tion: and they that dwell on the earth shall won­der, whose names were not writ­ten in the book of life from the foun­da­tion of the world, when they behold the beast that was, and is not, and yet is.
Of course, it’s unlike­ly that Mark’s essence was bred entire­ly of evil, but — like Tump, in many ways — he is an excru­ci­at­ing­ly wealthy idiot. Though he is spend­ing 2017 tour­ing the Unit­ed States, he doesn’t seem to be all that inter­est­ed in actu­al­ly clos­ing the gap between him­self and the rest of us, which sug­gests that he only wants us to throw us off his extra-ter­res­tri­al, xeno­pho­bic scent. I can’t imag­ine what The Moth­er­ship would real­ly want with my Ama­zon brows­ing his­to­ry, though.
And anoth­er angel came out of the tem­ple, cry­ing with a loud voice to him that sat on the cloud, Thrust in thy sick­le, and reap: for the time is come for thee to reap; for the har­vest of the earth is ripe.
Just to be clear, he is not The Antikhris­tos.
 
He’d bet­ter not be, any­way.
 
I’d be absolute­ly Livid with Lucifer if his choice of a fig­ure­head for his Big Plan was such a Fuck­ing dork.
Remem­ber there­fore from whence thou art fall­en, and repent, and do the first works; or else I will come unto thee quick­ly, and will remove thy can­dle­stick out of his place, except thou repent.
I mean… if Fuck want­ed to spend his time craft­ing 6000-word essays, why the Fuck didn’t he just build a Fuck­ing CMS back in his Jesse Eisen­berg era instead of the actu­al week­ly-updat­ed tow­er of dig­i­tal Baby­lon? Sure­ly, Satan would know bet­ter than to waste resources and pul­ver­ize cre­ativ­i­ty by order­ing his Demon­ic Dev team to release reg­u­lar builds for build’s sake rather than on a per-need basis, but that’d be because The Tempter is an author­i­ty on incen­tives as thor­ough­ly as Fuck isn’t.
 
If you’re equipped with the priv­i­lege of lit­er­a­cy, you’ve been read­ing a lot about Fuckbook’s polit­i­cal con­se­quences, recent­ly. Frankly, it’s about Fuck­ing time, but I’m com­pelled to empha­size that the most sig­nif­i­cant motor dri­ving the poli­tik is fueled by the eldest, fos­silized por­tions of our thought meat. Accord­ing to Man­joo, “the News Feed team’s ulti­mate mis­sion is to fig­ure out what users want,” dip­ping in Fuckbook’s ocean of action data, search­ing for a soul.
 
Yet anoth­er Fuck­ism that sug­gests he’s an alien: every­body knows that nobody knows what they want. 
 
There’s a cen­tral mechan­ic of our brains that by nature wreaks a whole hel­lu­va lot of con­tra­dic­tion. If you’ve ever men­tioned ADHD with your doc­tor, or know a hypochondriac/adderall fiend who has, you may have heard it described as “the lizard brain.” Sim­ply put, it’s the brain stem, and it’s respon­si­ble for the most basal and prim­i­tive­ly emo­tion­al instincts and habits; an anti-intel­lec­tu­al agi­tant, argu­ing at all times for the course of action with the most imme­di­ate grat­i­fi­ca­tion. The Great Click­bait War of 2013 was a star­tling demon­stra­tion that revealed the strength of the hold Fuck­book had (and still has) on these rep­til­ian bits — the true loca­tion of its pow­er.
 
“In sur­veys, peo­ple kept telling Face­book that they hat­ed teas­ing head­lines. But if that was true, why were they click­ing on them?”
Voli­tion is the Word of the Day.
 
Here, we must once again invoke an ancient para­ble from the wise fore­tellings of the Dis­ney film, Smart House: when deal­ing with human beings, bound­less com­pli­ance quick­ly leads to abject mis­ery for all par­ties involved.
 
Mind­less­ly, habit­u­al­ly, end­less­ly click­ing… this is how we die.
 
Some­thing about Fuck’s direc­tion is fun­da­men­tal­ly poi­so­nous to the human mind. Yes, he is assured­ly too Fuck­ing demo­c­ra­t­ic, but mis­in­for­ma­tion is far from the only form of evil his cre­ation has assumed. If you can jog your mem­o­ry back a bit, you’ll remem­ber a much wider vari­ety of brain-rot­ting filth.
 
In laps­es of their exis­tences’ fini­tude, the 40-some­thing sec­ond cousins of the world may still send you the occa­sion­al Can Crunch Saga invite, jar­ring you back to Jr. High in 2009, and for­ev­er asso­ci­at­ing them­selves in your mind with the hor­rors of mor­tal­i­ty and
f u c k b o o k  g a m e s.
More than one sixth of all liv­ing eyes see Fuck­book every sin­gle day, plac­ing its con­sump­tion behind only eat­ing and drink­ing as the most uni­ver­sal­ly human activ­i­ty. 
 
Mr. Fuck achieved his vision and became per­haps the great­est pur­vey­or of words who’s ever lived. He’s taught (or… is teach­ing) us a few very pro­found things about our­selves.

  • Capa­bil­i­ty is not the whole of the equa­tion.
  • Abil­i­ty on its own can­not guar­an­tee growth, but it can often result in decay.
  • Dis­cus­sion does not inher­ent­ly lead to con­nec­tion.
  • Pop­u­la­tion is not a cure for iso­la­tion.

That said, I must begrudg­ing­ly admit to you that I, myself am one of the 100 mil­lion users who’ve depend­ed upon a “very mean­ing­ful” Face­book group for a “phys­i­cal sup­port struc­ture” for which I have Fuck to thank.

I’ve spent half of my exis­tence watch­ing cheesy barn­storm­ing movies, whirling around die-cast biplanes, seek­ing out sto­ries from old pilots — mil­i­tary and com­mer­cial, and even­tu­al­ly trained to become one myself. As reg­u­lar activ­i­ties at young ages do, avi­a­tion became deeply ingrained into my iden­ti­ty, but my local com­mu­ni­ty is very sparse — it’s not exact­ly cool, these days. On Fuck­book, an unof­fi­cial group for mem­bers of the Air­craft Own­ers and Pilots Asso­ci­a­tion has allowed me to stay con­nect­ed to the rest of the world’s Soar­ing Nerds, which is no small deal. It’s the only forum which I am com­pelled to par­tic­i­pate in with 100% sin­cer­i­ty and emo­tion­al effect.
 
Pho­tos of mem­bers stand­ing proud­ly next to their first air­plane, or of ado­les­cent stu­dents in a sim­i­lar pose after their first solo, or of three old white rubes on a hangar pic­nic, laugh­ing around a fold-up table full of rudi­men­ta­ry ham sand­wich­es in front of two gleam­ing Stear­mans…
 
They tug around on my heart like noth­ing else in life can.
 
I stopped fly­ing lessons at 16 because I began to see behind the naivety of my child­hood per­cep­tion of what it meant to fly com­mer­cial­ly and real­ized that I was unequipped for- and unin­ter­est­ed in the sort of chal­lenges it pre­sent­ed. I haven’t flown in sev­en years, but the com­mu­ni­ty will always have a tremen­dous div­i­dend of my core being.
 
These days, not a sin­gle per­son in my day-to-day life knows or cares about avi­a­tion, which wouldn’t be laud­able what­so­ev­er were it not so emo­tion­al­ly nec­es­sary for me.
A few days ago, a mem­ber shared a pho­to with the group of Charles Lindbergh’s mod­i­fied Ryan cock­pit, cap­tioned “what air­plane am I?” 
 
In my youth, Lind­bergh ful­filled my clos­est equiv­a­lent to the ‘child­hood hero’ role. My grand­moth­er bought me a first-edi­tion copy of The Spir­it of St.Louis from a small town book­shop when I was six or sev­en, and I car­ried it lit­er­al­ly every­where with me until mid­dle school. I watched the Jim­my Stew­art film tens and tens of times, and I cried when I saw the Spir­it in the flesh at the Smith­son­ian, yet I’ve nev­er had an informed con­ver­sa­tion about any of it with anoth­er human being. It real­ly warmed me to see how many of the com­ments were cor­rect answers. 
 
Break­ing news: it’s nice to know that there are oth­er peo­ple on Earth who give a shit about the same things you do.

Again — aspi­ra­tion should always be encour­aged. This is Fuck’s vision for his cre­ation, and it is fea­si­ble, even for myself. At least his pub­lic per­sona — how­ev­er valid or invalid it may be — is mak­ing a huge effort to have pos­i­tive con­se­quence, even if his idio­cy is imbu­ing itself in all of human­i­ty.

 

Fuck is too pow­er­ful to be exempt­ed from respon­si­bil­i­ty for what Fuckbook’s done to the West­ern psy­che over the past decade, but — like the Chris­t­ian god — per­haps all we need require is his repen­tance. 

He that is unjust, let him be unjust still: and he which is filthy, let him be filthy still: and he that is right­eous, let him be right­eous still: and he that is holy, let him be holy still.
 
Amen.
Edi­tor-in-Chief