Funkstars

A new dawn is beginning, and in its wake it will leave the old days behind!

Such is the unofficial slogan of the funksters, this mixed- and often ill-forgotten half-generation of growing youths determined to live life by a standard unbeknownst previous ages. They stand on Church corners smoking cigarettes, riding their bikes up and down streets defiant of smoggy car thick traffic beeping and screaming dispute, choose neither paper nor plastic, and often get belligerently drunk into the night and speak of anti-Walmart ideals, a world where Verizon and Jesus are mere comic book villains, badly drawn and poorly written.

To you, my funkstar brethren, I tip my tossled hat and spit directly into the street, outlawed or otherwise.

Ahhh…but what are funksters you question yourselves (for surely you wouldn’t question me, a mere blog)?

To experience the life du funkst, you must be prepared to delve into a world, a mad world perhaps, where socks have no reason to match and boycotts are enflicted on the establishment merely for the purpose of giving one’s self direction. Think of this as the “to do” list of funkstardom:

• Attire: Keeping the body warm is essential to all things funkst, but only to the point where it doesn’t impede style. For style, my good dear mortals, is the essence of existence. Without style we’re pointless, useless to the advancement of the species as a culture, and should be set to work lifting heavy objects merely for the point of lifting heavy objects, as we will be unable to accomplish much more. Your outward appearance is a reflection of how cool you think you are on the inside, or at least how cool you choose to pretend you are on the outside. Hence, outward appearance = cool on the outside. Divide that by ego, self-esteem and the Salvation Army, and you’re poised to defeat the greatest mathematics equation since time multiplied itself 13.6 eons ago!
• Conviction: There are many evils in this world, too many to count, in fact, but the problem is, you have to recognize something in order to be able to count it. It’s true, and I can prove it. The average hand of a mammal – male, human – has seventeen fingers, one for each polar ice cap on Earth. The reason that we so often count up the digits on our right (or, God forbid, left) hand and arrive at a calculation closer to 5 or 6 is because we don’t recognize the other digits. It’s true, infallibly so, as much a Law of Science as the realization that given a certain degree of time, space and aerosol, the word “digits” appears to only take on italics form for the first syllable or so. Think about that, good faithful, and you might realize why it is the funkster way to not only face the evils which are obvious – hatred, oppression, non-organic milk – but also to assign various other things in the universe the title of “evil” and do what it takes – only as you can, but at all costs – to smote them like Mentos on a dragon’s tongue. Good examples of seldom recognized evils are: folding laundry, white bread, and using your index finger rather than your thumb to light a Bic lighter.
• Others: here is a place where I may have listed or continued listing things, however, as you may be noting, I have not. Take notes on that because I have made a mental note of it unto myself.

But why let words speak the language when pictures are fluent in thoughts? Here are some examples of both:

As seen on here, funksters go mad with color and sanity when experiencing “the lock down.”

If a beard is the mark of a man, but a mustache is just gay, then what could it mean when we see here an image altered to look very shadowy and dark? What will become of the alt tag? Does this man “got the funkst?”

Nothing says “I support America!” like a magnet affixed to your car that reads “I support America!” But if China decides to stop supplying us with them, the next best thing is to actually support America by seeing it. Therefore, here’s some loosely associated gear that you may find in the rucksack of a wandering funkstar.

Here we see a young funkstar learning to cut with scissors, so that later in life he won’t be driven to cut himself. Cutting, boys and others, is not only cool, but it’s bad for you as well. Also, note what he’s cutting. That’s right, paper. Probably shitty poetry from one of his many ex-girlfriends where she expressed her undying love but then betrayed him by playing tag with the “girl next door.” Don’t trust her, Johnny.

Up Next: ... (pt. continued)