Sujay Kumar

If for a moment one can imagine Hamlet as a 14-year-old girl, born from the schaudenfreude of millennials, then perhaps one can understand the tragic story of Rebecca Black. It has been many Fridays since Ms. Black failed to upset the establishment and “got down.”

In “The Anthony Weiner Weiner Collection,” on display through July 21^st, we are asked to follow New York artist Anthony Weiner through an uncut, sexually-charged, erotic journey into his self—and loins. It’s a myriad of raw self-portraits, drawing from Weiner’s throbbing ego and drawers. But, once we’ve felt his work, like a high-profile tryst splashed on the cover of tabloid rags, there is no satisfaction.

I ask God Almighty for her to see this note: 6’6, 72 kilo, brown hair, brown eyes, beard, olive skinned, Sheikh entrepreneur. White undershirt and tan robe, armed with a cane and Kalashnikov. Hero is the Prophet Muhammad. Praise be to God.

How can Kate avoid upskirt pictures?
One must never allow one’s knees to part, even for a brief moment as here is most likely a photographer with a long lens waiting to snap a picture of your undergarments. Assuming, of course, you wear undergarments.

Seven score and ten years ago, a great civil war tested whether a nation born from revolution and built on liberty and equality could endure. And it has. Yet today, cataclysmic events in a foreign land threaten to eviscerate two entire races.

Herein begins one of the most controversial sections of the song: The rap. Featuring an African American man in his mid 30s, audiences expect this lyrical maestro to hop on the flow and “break it down.” He evokes the muses by calling for “R-B,” but what follows can only be described as gibberish.

For those who just became aware of my existence last week, I’d like to point out that I’m not a member of the custodial staff. Get your own damn half and half. While I’m aware that the world we work in is incestuous, unlike the sycophantic 20-somethings that usually fill my position, I really don’t care.

Stand patiently in the security line with your shoes already off because you’re not a shoe-bomber. In the ten seconds it takes an official to check your boarding pass and ID, joke about Barack Obama and threat level orange. Load your backpack in the screener and pause thoughtfully. Full scan or metal detector? You share society’s exasperation. Chuckle as security does a full body cavity search of the grandmother in front of you.

Crafting the perfect Facebook status update this New Year’s can make you the person everyone wants to be. Fail and you’re the quintessential douchebag. You know, that guy who’s both the bane of your virtual existence and the only reason you subscribe to Mark Zuckerberg’s fantasy world.