After careful deliberation, something unfashionable in the internet age, I’m offering the revolutionary transpontine interpretation of recent events.
Jonnie Marbles sat through hours of polite investigation, gentle probing and media elite slippery avoidance. Elite gently nibbling elite.
He politely tweeted commentary, as it seems did half the world.
And then he stuck a pie in the face world renowned bastard, Rupert Murdoch.
And then all (polite, ineffective complaining) hell broke loose. Marbles, in absentia, was dragged over the lukewarm coals of digital justice by panicking lefties and dreary salt-of-the-earth types. He had, apparently, ruined everything. The chance to topple Murdoch’s Empire gone, vanished in a splatter of shaving custard. Apparently.
But I put it to you all that the problem lies not in Marbles’ stunt, but in the complete failure of the rest of us to join in.
There is a class of disreputable bastards of which Murdoch is currently merely the most visible that deserve at the very least a pie in the face.
Ten solid days of worldwide pie throwing would drag us closer to something resembling utopia than at any point in non-theological history.
But do we pick up the pies and join in? No! We make crawling attempts to intellectualize our own lack of balls. We decry the bravest man amongst us as somehow cowardly. We roar inside with jealousy knowing this damn sexy bastard has lived so brighter in one moment than we ever will. We even go so low as to dehumanize the elderly as an invented class of unables (would you babytalk a “nigger”?)
The problem with Marbles is, if anything, that he is too much for this world. This world, from Tooting to Tehran, should be pitipataring to the sound of the #splat hashtag made real, made revolutionary, made plural.
Marbles, I’m proud of you. I’m honoured you picked up the luridity and melodrama of our transpontine ways in your time in Mitcham, and so fantastically unleashed in the face of an enemy.