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Not every cry is a cry for help. The internet is like if everybody in the world stuck their heads underwater at once and screamed. The more analogies you make about it, the more it’s a Tim and Eric skit. That’s why the iconoclast poet director to make the net strip at gunpoint is Herzog. He can edit it into the mere tool it should have been in one sentence. Herzog is his own region beyond what reviews can muster, this godhead devoted to the hypnosis of the moment. With only a quarter of his genius, he provided a platform for the most rabid performer alive, gave him his masterpieces, and weathered the response of Kinski’s play fighting memoir of unhinged fuckathons. It was the bible for breaking hymens. Herzog was supposed to be a bumbling idiot and the genius of those films, according to Kinski, was Kinski, but we were seeing the man’s eye repeat a particular brilliance in every field, free of that intense loon. Stoszek’s ending is a version of sublime that can only be experienced. Going online should have developed into a benevolent colligating intertwinement of helpful and disposable linkage. We could have had a world laced with data as our second oxygen, a friendly sort of clap on oxygen you could approach at your convenience, a stockpile lung free of need. A nice codicil for the day, a warp speed of vernaculars kept staccato throughout our partitioned subconscious. Instead, the world wide web’s pretty much a fiberglass enema of polemicists, emphasis on cyst, Siamese twinned by the rankest medulla. We bequeath ourselves to the same heap. We proved we’re just another voluminous hematoma shaped like a frown the size of air. Any evidence in favor of hope is inadmissible at best. As someone willing to wink at Satan, I’m proud we obnubilated one of our top inventions forthwith. It’s like if aliens landed and rather than taking them to our leader we stomped them right to raptio. We pioneered the satellite for sex slavery, my friends, uncork some wine and fuck yourself with it. The internet was born to star as Herzog’s final Kinski. He did Even Dwarves Started Small and set the tone while the big box baby computer was suckling its bloodiest milk. The beginning of our end is the continuance of Herzog’s mastery.

PS – Michigan’s Cinetopia flared up again. The Valtrex for it is usually the two or three non-geriatric films they let slip into their programming. I believe Herzog's was the only brazenly vesicular showing this year. Before it could happen, though, the audience had to endure an hour of thanks to different sponsors, a brief lecture from a sponsor, and further applause for sponsors. The hell with films, whose business is thumbs up today? Humans have a horror older than our being. We can only tease an obtainable Armageddon. The end won’t arrive until our blue balls for it unknots the species through a jissom of technological amenities. We outstayed our welcome, starting with when hair indexed us, as soon as insulation was necessary. We should have gone extinct before touching was a thing.