State Fair
Speaking of barn animals : that doja chick made a new clip with some stripper. She's meanwhile... lost, let's say, pretty much every distinctive anything she ever had ; but "in exchange" (let's say) the sound, the set, the everything's reasonably produced to decent values. The end result's... decenti, I guess, though the nudity certainly could stand some dialing up.
Which brings us to today's topic, the titular State Fairii.
In this regrettable piece of nonsense Margy[erine to Vivian Leigh's butteriii] mopes about. She dun danceiv, she dun titties, she just... mopes, what, it's both her own word and the right word. There's a lotv of unintended, unexpected and otherwise uncanny comedy, principally resulting from the interplay of kink high's "firm convictions" with the historyvi thereof (and therefore completely immune to any suspicions of intentionality). Besideswhich, the interiors (especially early on) have a lot in common with historical reality : they're idealized versions of real objects, importantly idealized with the means then available. Therefore the film's informative for the amateur who wants to be able to follow (at least broadly) an actual anthropologist's points, but doesn't want to actually do all the reading involved.
Ultimately I suppose that's what Iowa always was all about, so in that unexpectedly meta sense the product delivers the promise in the title. It's only fair...
———- In fairness there wasn't anything there besides coincidentally-flavoured lazy to begin with, so nothing of substance or import was lost. [↩]
- 1944, by Walter Lang, with a tediously overdressed Jeanne Crain and otherwise a buncha extras, comedians etcetera. [↩]
- It's painfully obvious chick was trying to marilyn before there was a Marilyn to marilyn so she just picked the next best thing she could find in her immediate environment an' set her ass down to marilyinin' that...
I could say it's uncunny, but come down to the brass tacks it's anything butt. It's not uncunny at all, it's so very very cunny it almost bleeds (monthly, or thereabouts). They're indistinct so they copy each other, because figuring weight for age an' tits for tats what the hell's gonna be so personal about a hole ? Biology really dun leave much to work with, nu-i vina lor, ie vina naturii. [↩]
- It is degrading in the superlative for a young woman to live with her feet glued to the ground. They just don't belong there, yo! Lift them up! As Ole Liz aptly put it, "the prettiest earrings are always your own ankles".
How did you think hoop earrings ever became a thing, anyways ?! Same way you'll ever become a thing, now hop to. [↩]
- If you'd like an example, I could give you an example. In the fictive world of then, just as in the current fictive world (not to mention reality, for reality's cold an' unfriendly), the female mates up in the world. The male stays on the farm, to continue his dad's endless toil ; but the young cunny goes to town, to be with a...
Well, with a "journalist", of course. Doh. That's the angle they were jacking off to back then, what else could possibly be as cool as being one of them losers. That they were selling silly bois stuck on the farm back in Iowa the same sort of nonsensical slop they reheated for various geese & assorted cunturkeys a few decades later is not the important point here. What the hell, every immigrant goes by the same rocks and shorelines on his way to a hollow statue, every turnip fallen off the truck rolls down the same pavements an' gutters... of course the "liberated" dumbos of the 1990s will be presented the same delicious dish that the "liberated" ourbravebois of 1950 had to suck up. Go to New York and live on your wits why dontcha!
Anyways, that could be the point anywhere, so I'm not making here. Instead, let me say, with all possible confidence, that you've never seen sketch like this. Not ever, not anywhere, they broke the mold. This dude, drastically indicated, foreshadowed an' all but introduced in neon lighting as the dream-come-true mate, this dude is so fucking creepy... I don't think I can put it in words. Let's just say he's from Creepazoid and they all bow down to his mastery of their craft back on his homeworld.
Suffice it to say that the "trust your gut" nonsense being passed about the platforms as some sort of superlative, unquestioned-because-unquestionable wisdom nowadays directly reduces to "trust what the media says". It's exactly -- but I do mean exactly -- equivalent to telling the heroine in a slasher flick to "follow the music". On one hand of course she will, and on the other hand you know why the music is there, who put it there, how come etcetera. And that it'll change. And how it'll change.
Well... it changed, what can I tell you. Trust your guts this other way now, they're the same guts, same shit inside... you just trust 'em this way now, you hear ? [↩]
- Hatefully recorded, no doubt, for it takes a certain type of disloyal blackguard to purport to keep track of the wars with Eurasia or whatever. THE TIME IS NOW!
PS. A blackguard is that thrice-cursed dog whose faulty vision sees things as they actually are as opposed to what they'd like to see. [↩]
