Postmodern is everything my spleen says it is.
It involves eating my own heart with an apple stuck in the bloody, still sucking aorta.
It’s a sad scene, like a starfish in a blender.
And, like that, it reconstructs itself into a starfish.
Like Modernism before, it practices slash-and-burn evangelism: if you don’t accept my Jesus, I’ll scalp you. If you accept my Jesus, I’ll scalp you.
It’s a good monkey. Like Mr. Magoo, it’s infinitely trainable with pen and inc. It’s a good dye job, but totally, insufferably blind, accidentally surviving falls down manholes into sewers, driving the car off cliffs, dropping lit matches onto powderkegs only to be blown sky-high – “Hey! What’s the big idea, making all that noise?!” – but with its clothes, its nose, its eyebrows, impossibly intact.
Ignorance, they say. To the postmodern it is not just bliss; it is survival. Merely not realizing it’s been blown sky-high, it wins the downhill and the Super G while sliding the slippery slope in a hatbox it didn’t even know it had stepped in. This is the true creation of the übermench: not a will-to-power but a fall-into-accident. Po-mo is the American way; history will say: the Germans and the French had no idea what hit them