Singes de Style: Epigones Élégant and the Road to Thanatos

Down the sidewalk comes the parade, with all the pageantry of a baby elephant walk. A train of hipster chimps (chimpsters?) shuffling forward with a loping gait, each clutching the scarf of the ape in front of him.
And where does this caravan lead? To Pain & Blunder’s Hangout, where their Vespas are parked in a row, conspicuous in attentive fashion.

Man invented the wheel, it must be agreed, but what are the consequences of these creations that we hand down to our bipedal brethren?
Let us focus upon one average member of this troop...

Professor John Gutts: “A creature of concise inanities, the subject preens in front of the picture window, conscious of the eyes of passers-by. Attracted by a glint from the superfluous array of mirrors on his motorised bike, he scampers over and hops aboard. The mirrors act as catalyst for the self-grooming instinct: The subject immediately hunches forward, gazing at self-image and ‘checks his style.’ Accidently kicking the parking brake free, the scooter rolls forward while the unknowing chimp’s trendy and way-too-long scarf gets caught in the wheel...”

So, we see (a) the gift of the wheel, coupled with (b) the scarf...

Prof. Gutts: “What was once an innocent fashion accessory becomes a sinister instrument in the bitter struggle between style and death...”

...along with the Compound Coagment Factor itself, (c) the desire for style.

Prof. Gutts: “The appetible hunger for a sense of style within a collective is an irony of ironies, as ‘rebellious manifestations’ counterproductively bolster tribal attitudes instead of girding the autolatry of ‘The Individual’ (Yeah, scare quotes there cos ‘tis a Hipster Paradox).”

So... when ’style’ is simply a recursive means towards its own ends, freely embraced by the Culturati along with a wink-n-nod postmodern excuse slip, should it be any surprise where it all leads?

Prof. Gutts: “Voluntary ironic detachment... begets passionless art... begets a lack of cultural contribution... A discursive roundabout manoeuvre resulting in a terminal free-fall into Niche CultureDeath.”

Monkeys struggling to free themselves from the sub-kitsch noose of their own making, gurgling their final words, “I’ll get noticed if it kills me...”