Skibidi: Revelations

Visions from the seated position...

A nightmare fever dream accompanied by bouts of diarrhea; a vision of the future of entertainment through the eyes of a humble content creator who is rapidly metamorphosizing into his ultimate form: Skibidi Toilet!

Enjoy!

The beast with many heads is described
which draweth the most part of the world to idolatry.
The other beast rising out of the earth,
giveth power unto him.

-1599 Geneva Bible, Revelation 13

In the beginning is the content.

A single work of genius has all the potentency of a solitary log down the drain. One shot, never to be seen again. The Ninety-Five Thesis lost in a sea of other listicles.

But the trots? That, my friend, is the pulse of life, the ever present reminder that I am here.

I post, therefore I am. I fail to publish, and I am buried beneath the next Taco Bell outflow of Tik-Tok reaction and e-girl philosophers.

Action, reaction. Hawk Luna, the eternal tides of this digital realm.

And thusly, my content is as Skibidi. Small, bite-sized, and continuous.

And woe unto you, should your output not be inculcating viewers into your Skibidified outflow, such behavior is expending rizz unproductively. You’ll have to win them over two separate times, once on platform A, then again on platform B, necessarily with different content, separate distribution systems — plumbing and electrical.

In your consistency you shall have measured twice and pushed out once.

Man of the world, I look at you and despair! Mortal flesh and bone lost in a metric blind hierarchy of man, and a live act only!

A tiny thing, another fruit fly around my magnificence.

I am the next man, fully formed. A singularly perfected God-head arriving out of the toilet bowl as the consummate entertainer — perfect every time. But beneath the toilet trap's curve I am eternal, extending in all directions through the pipes of my heaven, a network state of sensory sludge, and at all times emerging up crapshoots across the globe to sing my sirens song:

"Like and subscribe!’

Like and subscribe!"

Same topic as yesterday, same format as tomorrow; variation is suicide.

Hate me but click me.

Thinkpiece me to infamy.

Make me a golden lolcow with honey laden udders, made fat by your unwilling intent.

And for you a self inflicted, self reifying concentration camp of the mind for the contemplation of retarded ideas.

Daily livestreams, camera phone to the face of a fat lipped she-child.

Join my growth model and struggle not, for I am the the Gordian Clog, and you’re no Alejandro the Great Plumber.

Better to learn to sing, or be sung to and answer my chorus of engagement optimized questions:

“What do you think about that?”

Then press your lips to the porcelain, the hardness through to your teeth, and whisper sweet little nothings past my ear, to echo down into the tubes of forever.

Interested in supporting? Tooky’s Mag is now accepting paid subscriptions!

We’ve also released a novella ‘Improvidence’, a Lewis & Clark style adventure across the post-collapse ruins of America. Available now: https://a.co/d/3AGjHU2