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To be fair, you have to have a very high IQ to understand Fucking Awesome. The graphics are extremely subtle, and without a solid grasp of Aesthetics the graphics will go over a typical skater's head. There's also Dill's nihilistic outlook, which is deftly woven into his characterisation - his personal philosophy draws heavily from Narodnaya Volya literature, for instance. The fans understand this stuff; they have the intellectual capacity to truly appreciate the depths of these graphics, to realize that they're not just cool- they say something deep about LIFE. As a consequence people who dislike Fucking Awesome truly ARE idiots- of course they wouldn't appreciate, for instance, the beauty in Fucking Awesome’s existential skate film "Randy Farkus" which itself is a cryptic reference to Turgenev's Russian epic Fathers and Sons. I'm smirking right now just imagining one of those addlepated simpletons scratching their heads in confusion as Aidan Mackey's genius unfolds itself on their computer screens. What fools... how I pity them. And yes by the way, I DO have a Fucking Awesome tattoo. And no, you cannot see it. It's for the ladies' eyes only- And even they have to demonstrate that they're within 5 IQ points of my own (preferably lower) beforehand.
lol you act like they invented their style of art. 99% of their style, especially Hockey, is just cut-n-paste style work ala punk/hardcore/zine/flyer culture.
What the fuck did you just fucking say about Fucking Awesome, you little bitch? I'll have you know I graduated top of my class in Supreme LA, and I've been involved in numerous filming missions with Strobeck, and I have over 300 confirmed slappies. I am trained in trendy tricks and I'm the top hill bomber in the entire country. You are nothing to me but just another poser. I will wipe you the fuck out with precision the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth, mark my fucking words. You think you can get away with saying that shit about FA over the Internet? Think again, fucker. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of big boy wearers across the USA and your IP is being traced right now so you better prepare for the storm, maggot. The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your life. You're fucking dead, kid. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can slappy you in over seven hundred ways, and that's just with my Caliber III's. Not only am I extensively trained in slappy grinds, but I have access to the entire arsenal of No Comply variations and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable ass off the face of the continent, you little shit. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little "clever" comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your fucking tongue. But you couldn't, you didn't, and now you're paying the price, you goddamn idiot. I will shit fury all over you and you will drown in it. You're fucking dead, kiddo.
He said, “Oh, like you’re doing now?”
I was taken aback, and all I could say was “Huh?” but he kept cutting me off and going “huh? huh? huh?” and closing his hand shut in front of my face. I walked away and continued with my shopping, and I heard him chuckle as I walked off. When I came to pay for my stuff up front I saw him trying to walk out the doors with like fifteen Milky Ways in his hands without paying.
The girl at the counter was very nice about it and professional, and was like “Sir, you need to pay for those first.” At first he kept pretending to be tired and not hear her, but eventually turned back around and brought them to the counter.
When she took one of the bars and started scanning it multiple times, he stopped her and told her to scan them each individually “to prevent any electrical infetterence,” and then turned around and winked at me. I don’t even think that’s a word. After she scanned each bar and put them in a bag and started to say the price, he kept interrupting her by yawning really loudly.
Jason Dill is the reason I work out. I have this fantasy where we start talking at the Play Dead after party. We exchange a few pleasantries. He asks what I do. I say I loved him on The Nine Club. He laughs. I get my drink.
"Well, see ya," I say and walk away. I've got his attention now. How many guys voluntarily leave a conversation with Jason Dill? He touches his neck as he watches me leave.
Later, as the night's dragged on and the coterie of gorgeous narcissists grows increasingly loose, he finds me on the balcony, my bowtie undone, smoking a cigarette.
"Got a spare?" he asks.
"What's in it for me?" I say as I hand him one of my little white ladies. He smiles.
"Conversation with me, duh."
I laugh.
"What's so funny?" he protests.
"Nothing, nothing... It's just... don't you grow tired of the egos?"
"You get used to it," he says, lighting his cigarette and handing me back the lighter.
"What would you do if you weren't an artist?" I ask.
"Teaching, I think."
"And if I was your student, what would I be learning?"
"Discipline," he says quickly, looking up into my eyes, before changing the subject. "Where are you from?"
"Mexico" I say.
"Oh wow. That's lovely."
"It's OK," I admit. "Not everything is to my liking."
"What could possibly be not to your liking in Mexico?" he inquires.
"I don't like sand," I tell her. "It's coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere."
Topic: f'ing awesome (Read 14604 times)