Look at this mythical creature right here — this guy is invoking the luck of the Irish as well all your hazy, whiskey-logged memories of St. Patrick’s Day 2009, a.k.a The Night Of 2-For-1 Shots At McGee’s And Colin The Street Performer With One Testicle. If you happen to catch this guy, he won’t be able to give you a pot of gold but he will offer you some of the pot brownie that his roommate’s girlfriend made for Burning Man. You can stare out of your rain-streaked window and wait for the storm clouds to part like some fucking Sarah McLachlan song if you want to, but this lepradchaun is making his own rainbows. And before you start ranting about how it’s June and that hat is only appropriate in March, why don’t you march your ass to the bank and see if your interpersonal skills and a flattering pant suit can land you a personal loan for say, oh, I don’t know, about 1000 fucks, because this lucky sonuvabitch isn’t giving any.
Oh, I’m sorry, what did you learn about cultural appropriation at your freshman year diversity forum? This party person can’t hear you over the sound of the Trail of Tears, which is what he calls the pathway from his bed to his apartment’s front door… Not that he does anything to harm the many beautiful women he sleeps with; they are just sad to leave him. Wait, why, what did you hear? It’s ALL LIES. No matter — Chief Turns Down For No One just popped his fifth tab of molly and can’t even remember whether he is human or dancer, never mind that wearing a headdress reinforces stereotypes about Native people and contributes to their dehumanization. Not only is he not giving a fuck, he’s also not giving you the $15 he agreed to pay for those beaded bracelets. #ManifestDestiny
You may think that these ladies passed out after imbibing too much spirit (that’s the street name for Oxycontin) but in fact they’re just resting their bones in order to further support the weight of all the fucks that they haven’t given. They give so few fucks that it doesn’t even concern them that they are about to be consumed by Audrey III. Homegirls wanted to catch some quick ZZZ’s and so they did. That’s right: your party is their pre-game, your music festival is their cat nap, and your dad is their sugardaddy.
You think that Beer Man isn’t a real superhero? Well, Marvel, DC, various independent publishers, Sony Pictures, Wikipedia, local law enforcement, and this guy’s mom would agree, but that doesn’t mean that he gives a fuck. God gave him two hands, millennials’ shattered self-esteem/drinking problems gave him two empty beer boxes, and he gave himself permission to tuck up in cardboard like an American Maru. Sure, you may be laughing now, but when you’re peeling sunburnt flesh off the top of your scalp because you stupidly forgot to apply sunscreen to your hairline, Beer Man will be unharmed and cool underneath his Miller Lite crown, popping open a six-pack of Not Giving a Good Goddamn.
Everyone told him that it wasn’t possible. His teachers laughed at him; his parents called it a “phase”; his track coach denied his request to have another teammate ride him during races and made him remove his terrycloth tail. They all said that one couldn’t just grow up to be apart of an entirely different species, but today he proves them all wrong. Today he isn’t just a man, he isn’t just a horse — he’s a glorious man-horse with a horn. He’s a uniman. A manicorn. And does he give a fuck? Neigh.
“Look at all my shit,” he whispers, the wind dancing through his fur collar, tickling his neck. “All of you are products of my design — you, girl in the Bart Simpson-printed cropped top taking swigs of Hpnotiq out of a perfume bottle; you, 30-year-old gentleman with the snapback who just shoved a group of preteen girls so he could be in front for The Strokes; even you, manicorn. You silly, pathetic humans, you don’t even realize what I have in store for you, the plans I have for your planet. Your frivolous queries disgust me. Your desperate clamoring for subjecthood is nothing more than misplaced energy. Your idea of conscious, of so-called “reality”, is just a — oh, is Tyler the Creator coming on? Swaggy swag.”
You wouldn’t give a fuck either if you’ve been lost for twenty-seven years.
Do you think this is a man who gives a fuck about your heteronormative ideas on how to perform gender? Look at that sculpted torso, those swole biceps, the way that skirt gracefully hugs his ass, the almost architectural draping, dat ass. Have you ever felt a soft stretch of cotton bounce against your knees and calves, swinging with the power of your own step, or heard the rustle of a skirt against your skin? Can you imagine the feeling of summer air tunneling around your bare legs? Can you paint with all the colors of the wind? No, you fucking can’t, because you’re sitting there in ill-fitting cargo shorts looking like a fucking virgin at summer camp. This guy wins, you lose.
Is that Burt Reynolds’ Playgirl centerfold that I spy? Oh, no, it’s just someone’s dad chilling so hard that the bones of Jerry Garcia were temporarily reanimated just to give this dude a thumbs up. This guy couldn’t care less that he is mortifying, like, socially killing his teenage daughter during a Grimes’ set or that he is laid out to be drawn like one of your French girls — in his head, he is back at Woodstock ’69, watching John Fogerty tear up the stage, and it is far out, man.
These crazy kids spent their hard-earned cash (her: folding graphic tees at Forever 21 for ten hours a day, six days a week, for two months; him: stealing his grandmother’s checkbook out of her purse) on tickets to Governor’s Ball and they will dance to the bands however they damn well please They’re young, they’re hot, they can still touch their toes, and they won’t remember any of this tomorrow. NO PARENTS, NO SCHOOL, NO RULES! Just so long as this is America, land of the free, home of the misbehaved, and not the sad, sexless resort in Dirty Dancing (wait, that was in America, wasn’t it?), these two will be bumpin’ and grindin’. Do they give a fuck? The only thing that is being given in this photo is a romantic lover’s embrace… and a case of scabies. (Call me, girl. I know a great OB-GYN.)