A Satirical Reflection on Oppression, Resistance, and Bodily Fluids

Prelude: On the Art of Petty Defiance

It was 1982, and I was a college freshman when I arrived at Virginia Tech for band camp — a peculiar blend of Animal House mayhem and Marine Corps discipline. We were prepared to march, sweat, line dance, hyperventilate, and suffer — but above it all, we had to fuck with the system.

It started innocently: SIR YES SIR responses to every command. Harmless mimicry, right? But the overlords (a.k.a. drum majors, directors, and squad leaders with clipboards and too much authority) didn’t like their boot camp turning into a Monty Python sketch. So, we escalated. More SIRs, louder salutes, synchronized idiocy.

Eventually, they broke. We won. Not a war. Not a revolution. But a moment. A single, stupid, glorious moment of defiance that still resonates with me.

That’s the thing about oppression — even temporary, even theatrical — it beckons rebellion, even if it’s just flipping off the gods with jazz hands.

Fight Club for the Downtrodden (or: Semen as Protest)

Fast-forward 2,000 years: We have Fight Club, a love letter to the pissed-off proletariat, wrapped in soap and sweaty abs. Tyler Durden teaches the oppressed to make explosives out of fat and philosophy, to piss in the soup of the ruling class (literally), and to reclaim chaos as a form of art.

Which brings us to my hypothesis: What if the ancient slaves, tired of being fondled, fetishized, and farmed for every drop of utility, convinced their vain captors that semen made for a divine beauty treatment?

“Yes, my liege. Rub it all over your face. It’s very rejuvenating.”

What started as a practical joke becomes a ritual. Cleopatra’s cousin is smearing tribute across her cheeks every night, while the slave who suggested it tells his bunkmates the story — and they laugh so hard it still echoes today.

The Overlords Always Forget the Kitchen

From Roman generals to modern generals, one truth endures: Never piss off the kitchen staff. I've heard it from soldiers across armies—commanders who mistreat their cooks might discover their steak tartare contains a little extra protein. Here's the irony: many of these commanders used to be grunts themselves. They understand, yet they've become believers in the very system that once crushed them.

Why? Because power breeds amnesia. Once you're the one being served, the possibility that someone could despise you with subtle, artful malice becomes too uncomfortable to acknowledge.

The Folly of the Elites

Elites build their thrones on the assumption that respect can be earned — or at least purchased. They forget that while the victors may write history, the oppressed can and will season their food accordingly.

They think control means loyalty and obedience. They think surveillance prevents subversion. They believe beauty comes from expensive creams — not from the bitter laughter of those who tricked them into slathering slave jizz on their foreheads or injecting salmon jizz into their faces.

They think the band kids are just marching to the beat. They forget that we are always mocking them — in the kitchen, in the trenches, in the bunkers, and yes, even in marching band.

Closing Statement

This is not a call to violence. It is a call to wake the fuck up. Just because you see an influencer (or anyone) doing something crazy, do your research first. At the very least, ask a trusted chatbot about the possible side effects.