WHERE TO START. The insistent “breathe!”-cow, the Jamaican (?) rooster, or the key weirdness of the shriveled elf-man and his skinny jeans, displayed to such flexible effect. Yogie Okey Dokie’s Yogi round-up (sic from video) is the singularly most disturbing thing I’ve received all week, and it is a struggle to pinpoint the most offensive or perplexing thing about it, because there is just so much to work with. Examples to follow.
Um, the opening shot of our new friend Yogie Okey Dokie and his hind-quarters-over-head thing.
The dance at 0:18 (trust, it is downhill from here).
From 0:31… I have no words. NEEMMPPHGGHH… UNGH… yeah, no words.
0:42: RUN, CHILLEN!!!! RUUUUUUUUUUUUN!
The “chicken scratching in the dirt” at 1:19.
What immediately follows (“Nmmmmmemememe.”)
What happens right after that (hands-down yogi town.)
“Nice anvil, Christian!” at 1:49.
Followed by, “Nice tomato! I’ll save that for my sandwich!”
Followed by farm animals going, “Mmmmm, hmmm, mmmm.”
VEGETABLE, vegetable, VEGETABLE! (at 2:06) and the subsequent tongue-thrusting insanity.
So… yeah. Everything IS terrible. I don’t think yoga for kids is a bad idea at all, and I don’t think that this guy is a pederast – I think he’s just enthused. But this is such an undeniable and compelling trainwreck I’m pretty sure it qualifies as high art.
A couple of months ago, I Googled myself to survey the search results of my LinkedIn profile, as I wanted to check the prominence of my public internet presence. Formerly, my profile was satisfyingly amongst the top results, and while my private Facebook page would pull up as well, it is locked down and unproblematic. This is all important, as I am very likely to be Googled by clients due to my business, and networking is crucial my job.
Imagine my consternation when I discovered that a 20-year-old nude model who shares my “Professional Tailfeather” moniker has been exposing herself all over the internets, granting interviews to taste-questionable websites, and generally undermining the professionalism of Professional Tailfeathers everywhere. Even worse, she is somehow from my hometown, which has led to a number of dodgy Facebook friend requests (DENIED). I had sort of blocked this out until my alarmed father sent me a link today to this “bouncy co-ed,” which he had innocently stumbled across whilst researching a midwestern distillery that shares our surname. Apparently, Undermining-Professional Tailfeather has conquered less literal aspects of the internet search, thanks to our uncommon last name.
Oh, Professional Tailfeathers. Can we not agree to conduct ourselves with some degree of decorum on the world-wide-whatsit? One of you already claimed the eponymous Twitter account, with giggly tweets about the X-Factor and underage British binge-drinking. Should we not agree on some ground rules? As a small consolation prize, Professional-Tailfeather-the-Naked may be gorgeous and practically illegal, but my LinkedIn profile still trumps her latest pizza-themed, soft-core porn shoot in terms of Google results. So this is my headline: Soulless corporate shill beats out bare-breasted-and-pepperonied beauty in the internet search sweepstakes! At least for now…
If there is one thing that every young radical who has the misfortune of reaching their late-twenties and discovering that non-profit work fails to pay the electricity bill will discover, it’s that her cooler friends will accuse her of selling out. And in all likelihood, the accusation will be just, and the “victim” of said insinuation or outright accusation will find herself with only a shaky stiletto on which to stand.
To many people, it doesn’t matter how much I recycle, that I walk to work, or how much money I donate to Planned Parenthood and the Red Cross. The fact that I listen to NPR only consolidates my place in the affluent white liberal ranks. I am a meat-eater who feels guilt because I am too lazy to make it to the organic farmer’s market every weekend. I have a Banksy coffee-table book. I am friends with my housekeeper. I yearn to be a roller derby girl but don’t have time and was rejected by Teach for America. My best friend bought me a Kindle for Christmas. I am an embarrassing living embodiment of Stuff White People Like.
And yet, last week, when my best friend from high school jokingly emailed me something about my job as a “corporate shill,” I about spluttered my Merlot all over my Netbook. I am far from moneyed, after all! My apartment doesn’t even have a dishwasher (and I will tell you, I never thought I would be practically 30 and living without basic mod-cons like central air). I do have a classic dryer from the 1970s, and a television that, as best I can tell, was the finest model on offer in 1995. I have a mouse for a roommate and a potentially murderous mold problem in my bathroom.
If I were a proper corporate shill, I would have a condo and a standing appointment for a weekly bikini wax. I would fucking know how to ski. I would not have a deep-discount wine habit and holes in the toes of all my socks. Just because he’s living in one of the Carolinas and getting his PhD in Hippie Pot-Smoking does not mean that I suddenly know how to iron. (more…)
