The postmodernist couldn’t drink a cup of coffee yesterday. The post-structuralism of such an act was far too overwhelming. The postmodernist couldn’t get a date last month. The concept of post-industrial love is “a bloated abstraction.” The postmodernist didn’t know how to vote this election. The post-truth got the best of his “conceptual understanding of epistemology”.

His best friend is a modernist. Always the utopian. Speaking of all his salons and soirees with such fervent glee. Such a “kiss-ass” he is, can’t see the world’s changed. Can’t get out of his own stream-of-consciousness.

Sometimes he gets the itch to scream in his friend’s face: “No one cares!”

If he was a real postmodernist he’d be a famous artist already. He definitely wouldn’t be a professor playacting Groundhog’s Day with the “premature narcissism” of freshmen.

Warhol stated he began as a commercial artist, but wanted to end up a business artist. Jeff Koons sold a giant orange balloon dog for 50 million dollars and “transubstantiated” his cumshot on his pornstar wife’s face into high art. Wim Delvoye made a machine that produces a near-perfect replica of human shit; and tattoos pigs in China, whose skin is then massaged, stretched, framed, and sold.

He’s just too weak. He can’t keep up with, or contain, the “viral capability” of contemporary art. Art has gone to the derivatives market, where rich people go to sound like post-structuralists when it comes to the “idiolect of economic liquidity.”

He needs a big idea, big as the GDP of some 3rd World countries. He needs to bash the idealism of modernism with the hypermodern chic of “he just doesn’t care”.

“I want to be a machine,” he repeats (Warhol’s mantra) to himself.

“What’s that ol’ chap?” says his modernist friend.


“What are you doing this New Year’s?”

“I’m going to blow up my house! And then sell what’s left.”