Killshot

 Drag began as satire, a glittering parody of gender. But the parody became permanent. Sequins turned into skin. The stage became life. What was once a joke now insists on being reality. The same infection spread to the performative male — curated softness, fragile self-awareness, endless disclaimers. A pose that calcified into a lifestyle.

And now they call this the “modern man.” Oxymoron of the century. If the spine remains, it is not modern. If it is gone, it is not man. You cannot hollow out the skeleton and still claim the name. Yet the ornamental offspring cling to it anyway, as if hydration by sipping liquefied grass were a masculine virtue, painting their world in pastel tones, building their lives as endless reels where every action is potential content and every shallow interest a brand.

Not since the Neanderthal has humanity felt the urge to evolve — but this time, the “evolution” is into parody. Into colorful, irrational, performative shells of what once was. Downgrade disguised as progress. Survival of the feeblest. Evolution into the most ornamental — decoration, not function.

Culturally-adapted, algorithm-approved progressive pussy. That is the new badge. Worn proudly by the pastel sons, like a participation ribbon. Survival not through strength or clarity, but through hashtags, playlists, and emotional collapse into content on a slow news day.

Darwin wouldn’t just roll in his grave — he’d crawl out to send us to a farm far away, or, by mercy, put us all to sleep, knowing a Wi-Fi blackout more fatal than famine would finish the job anyway.

PS: This article was co-written with ChatGPT