What would Jett say?

So Clancy has developed a new game it seems of sharing news items with me and then suggesting I respond as Jett would. Since Jett and I have a lot in common, it comes pretty naturally, and after yesterday’s personal shark agenda post… A new contender for target of Jett’s wrath: Young Men Are Masturbating to Sneaker Destruction. This is a thing. It is happening. And Jett is pissed.

So it’s a simple game… Clancy shares the link, gives me time to work up a head of froth about the injustice of the world, and then asks, “What would Jett say?”

I picture the scene… Lovinsneax1 is wearing his favorite kicks as Jett approaches his table at a coffee shop and sinks into the seat opposite him without warning or question. Their eyes meet. Jett’s wearing an expression like the full fury of the self-damned. Lovinsneax1 starts to speak, and Jett holds up one long, callused finger to forestall query. There’s no room in Jett’s world for weak arguments or protest.

He speaks, gravelly voice spilling from his lips and across that little table to smack the young man about the head and neck as it reaches for his unhearing ears. “Look, dillhole, those things were probably made in a sweatshop. Your worship of name brands makes you a tool of the patriarchy and the capitalistic oligarchy. There’s a lot of archys here, ok, man?

“You’re playing into the object fixation of those with nothing more fulfilling in their lives than the acquiring of status objects, and you’re worse because you think you’re subversive. You think you’re hot shit and special because you destroy that which you acquire, as if that makes you above the shallow acquisitiveness of your peers, who esteem you for your boldness and recklessness in denigrating their ultimate goals, but all that makes you is a pack of fools who play into the end game of the kyriarchy–another archy, read a book, son, goddamn–where the dominance of capitalism over underpaid workers desperate just to survive is kept on point by the pitiful cash-flinging efforts of consumer pigs like you, and all the while you picture yourself somewhere near the -top- of that food chain…

“But you’re Nike’s bitch. You’re Adidas’s bitch. You’re being used, son, and you don’t see it. You can’t make a relationship work with a human, so you’re buying your lust objects and degrading them like you’ve internalized the degrading of lust objects, and thank fuck you aren’t rich enough to do this to hookers cause goddamn… Sex workers deserve a hell of a lot better than your twisted ass, and I’m saying this as someone with significant kinks.

“Just…take several seats. Take. Several. Seats. And stop splashing out for snack packs and make your own fresh, for fuck’s sake. It would look way sexier. Amateur.”

Jett rises without bothering to waiting for a response, straightens the dog collar around his neck, and prowls out the door, off to lecture still more confused young men with more money than conscience.

 

In case that was Greek to you, you can get to know Jett in the following novels (helpfully linked for your reading pleasure):

black gold

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