Dadaism and Hilarity 101: John Kricfalusi


I started off being a fan of his work for bringing us the cel-crafted piece of chaotically adorable utter freakiness that is Ren & Stimpy, but I never imagined I’d be appreciating him on this level at this age. I’m so happy over this. So incredibly happy. Why?

This article. Because the author knows what I’m talking about.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how it’s better to laugh at human nature rather than bemoan it, and this is on the motherfucking level.
I also believe that the only justification art needs is one observer to believe something is artistic. Subjectivism is key. Any argument against that only makes me feel my point is being further proven, so fuck off with that. I mean that in a nice way (we all secretly know ‘fuck’ is a nice word).

But, I’ve got to say I want John Kricfalusi in the White House. Don’t roll your eyes! Hahah, go on then. It’s cute.
Only people like this can save us, and I think North America needs help expressing themselves and appreciating things in ways that won’t get them stopped at the border. Or jailed. Or killed. Or just being made to question what “freedom of speech” means, let alone “freedom” in and of itself.
Many people claim Dadaism was borne from the ashes of World War I, and I agree. How better to react to terror, horror, evil, callous indifference and calamity than to at least try to embrace what we have left as people?
Culture. Opinion. Humour. Beauty. Ingenuity. Chaos.
Those things can never be truly extinguished. Never, so long as we breathe. I truly believe that. And so far, the Dada concept is the only thing I’ve found that could possibly hold all of those concepts together.
And I’d like to salute our man in question. Not only has he finally hit Miley where it hurts (the wallet), but he’s done it in a way that

1: He undeniably benefited from. You know that sly cat got paid, made and laid. And why not? You only need to look up the Bangerz Tour on Google Image Search to see what colossal scale the madness got taken to. So much work must have gone into it; I can’t even imagine. Set-dressers. Props. Foley artists. Costume. So there are others getting paid too, which is awesome. Money aside though, what’s really important is that you know he had so much fun doing this. That’s what’s huge. Such a budget to spend indulging his own lovingly sick humour – and all he had to do was let some culturally ignorant little shit-bop-slit-pop wunderkind think she’s in control. Too damned funny.

2: Suggests to me that the greater good may prevail. I feel I’d be offensively exaggerating to suggest that we’re in another World War, but some say we are, and I kinda see where they are coming from. I’ve found two somewhat (kinda tenuously, but it’s there) inclusively predominating sides to that one –

  • Ones who live in war-torn countries. The world as they know it is in a state of war. And when you’re going through that horror, I’m not going to be a dismissive little cunt (in my relatively peaceful little corner of the globe) about it. And why should we wait until most of the planet’s shooting at each other to stand up against it? Because we’re good at putting our blinkers on? Because they are ‘other’ and we are ‘us’? I ask myself that a lot. Hmm. Shit got deep for a minute.
  • Ones who believe the scariest frontier for war is the mind. Anyone who read 1984 and lost sleep over the concept of ‘thoughtcrime’ (guilty as charged) may understand this one. And even if you’re not into sci-fi dystopian literature (OR IS IT NONFICTION OH GOD —shush, just a minute, inner child—), then try and recall the last inspirational story you followed that involved overcoming extreme adversity. The strength of hope is the leading non-medical cure to any physical limitation, apparently. Hope, happiness, humour, love – all intangible. War, to these people is when these things get crushed, if I can get back to the 1984 state of affairs for a bit. The world described within that story is being systematically gutted to ensure no freedom of thought, and art’s taking a total beating, taking lives with it. There is hope in the various messages people draw from what they consider artistic… maybe that’s what I’m getting at. That’s as simply as I can explain it. Oh, I’m way off track here. [Engine Number 9, do you copy? Report back. Over.]

So, culturally, I reckon Kricfalusi’s doing what he can to win. At least in my eyes. And if that means hoisting that little snatch-puppet by her own petard, then I’m just glad he did it for us all to behold. It’s just… it’s more than a little sad that the little girl Miley Cyrus once was has grown into a rather questionable adult who is probably already well on her way to some kind of meltdown (But that was always an outta-control train. Or was it? I’m still not sure if it’s her fault or if blame even belongs here).
Well, like it or not, too many people admire her and her ways. It’s one thing to want to emulate someone for being free and confident enough to do what they like and ‘be themselves’, but it’s another thing to shove sex and drugs in li’l kids’ faces under the flimsy guise of contrived cuteness. Gonzo? Man… she ain’t gonzo (Please forgive her, Hunter S.). Anyone doing that foam-finger-pseudo-kawaii-pukana in a non-ironic way needs a hug and a talking-to. I’ve tried to see it all from a few perspectives and I’m left with this – I’m glad I don’t currently have my own children to safeguard from these things. I’m not sure I’d do a good enough job. Because that’s something you’re supposed to do (sidelong glance at Mr. and Mrs. Cyrus) with your kids, right?

Get to them before the media doesGood values > valuing goods. You don’t breathe obnoxygen; you live on this planet, et cetera.

BUT WHO CAN TALK MILEY OUT OF HER NUTJOB TREE? She’s climbing higher and higher. You know what I’m talking about. She can’t handle it. Jonathan Ross tried calming her down all that time ago and it was hilarious. But hey, she can’t be tamed. Or can she? Once the money stops coming in, she’s screwed. She’ll be out on her chafed little patootie to look for shreds of dignity in puddles of tantrum tears cried over fairweather friends. I can picture it now and it is not pretty. Duuuuuuuuuude. Human nature has responded to her method of art by simply not wanting to pay for it anymore. John K’s safe in comparison to her, I think. He was simply being commissioned to follow her visions! Oof. Angry parents. Alienated fans. Empty seats. Uh-oh, Cyrus clan! GEE WHIZ and GOSH DARN if that don’t make me laugh so hard I can’t BOOT-SCOOTIN’ breathe.

John Kricfalusi For President – but I bet he’s smart enough to know it’s not the best position to run things from. Anyway, well done, sir. Thanks for making wanton self-destruction so insanely fun to follow, if only for a short time. I’m riding this wave until it crashes.

I know. I’m sick in the head. It’s so funny though. It’s so funny I’m questioning my own sanity. Aw, shit.


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