Diplo Attempts to Break Twerking “World Record” With Twerk-Wall at Electric Zoo

Here are two people twerking

Here are two people twerking

Two questions, ladies. 1) Do you have an ass? 2) Can you twerk so hard you could churn butter with it?

If you’re a YES on both, Diplo needs your help. This Sunday, the dirty beat impresario brings us his latest creation: “Butts Around the World,” wherein he will attempt to break the “world record” of twerkers twerking at one time with his patented “Twerk-Wall.” If some of those words make sense to you, and you’re interested in joining Diplo on this noble quest, here’s what’s what: You can win one of 50 free tickets to this weekend’s Electric Zoo dance music festival on Randall’s Island by sending Diplo a video of yourself twerking to, naturally, twerk4diplo@gmail.com. If his #expressyourself contest from last year is any indication, the competition will be fierce. Diplo and his assorted Mad Decent Bros will review each video submission with what we can only presume is absolute seriousness (lab coats, clipboards etc.). Presto Chango, Twerk-Wall assembled.

We guess “Wall” must now be the official collective noun for a group of twerkers. Like if lions hang in a pride, geese in a gaggle, twerkers always work in a wall. Maybe Oxford English dictionary–which just added “twerk” online–can weigh in. Either way, this is not Diplo’s first twerk rodeo. The title track on his 2012 EP Express Yourself is basically an audio instruction manual in how to twerk, and after its release Diplo ran a contest for fans to send him photos of their twerk handstands. Since then, Diplo’s Twitter and Instagram have been glazed in a sheen of butt-sweat, as fans send in soft-(and not so soft-)core twerking pics and videos which the man gleefully reposts. That’s partly why the GIANT PERVS at Buzzfeed encourage you to follow him.

Again, Diplo is billing this as a “world record” attempt at assembling the greatest numbers of twerkers ever twerking in one place, because the Guinness people (shockingly) have no entry for this. It’s a little silly to claim the record with just 50 twerkers when you consider Diplo has spent much time in New Orleans (he shot his twerk-heavy “Express Yourself” video there), and you can find twice as many folks twerking there at 2 p.m. in a Wal Mart. But we guess the record has to be OFFICALLY claimed by someone, and will surely be smashed soon after. But for a brief period in time, you could get your name in the record books. Just think how proud your parents will be.

And how should we feel about this jiggling wall of girl flesh, seducing the eye-balls of 100,000 EDM fans? In a word: good. In two words: mad good. The slut-shaming of Miley Cyrus for all her hard twerk at the VMAs shows us that body-hatred and puffed-up prudery are alive and well in those sexless ivory towers of the lamestream media. Twerking is not just good. Twerking is LIFE. (Or, at the very least, can earn you a scholarship.)

Be safe out there.

(cross-posted at the Village Voice)

“Ralph the Robot”: character sketch for proposed TV pilot

Name: Ralph the Robot

Place of birth: Robot Spawning Facility 6, on the planet Celath.

Siblings: Being a robotic race, Celathunes have no concept of siblings. But seven other Celathunes were created that day in that particular Spawning Tower. In a way, Ralph is an octuplet.

Education: Argh, Who cares. This is dumb. I hate my own idea.

Address and occupation: This is such a stupid concept. Why would someone from such an advanced robot civilization visit Earth?

Friends and acquaintances: I’m quoting from my notebook: “The robots eat soil to live, and Ralph’s planet is running out of soil, so they need our soil and they sent Ralph to get the soil”. Really? That’s the back-story? It makes no sense. Why would a mechanical being eat organic matter? Moron.

Describe their apartment: Wasn’t this supposed to be a gentle comedy, with a “fish-out-of-water” robot? If they want our soil, these robots are colonists to be feared and destroyed. Fuck the kooky human roommates and their life lessons. This is race war and they are race traitors. We don’t need understanding. We need tanks. And fighter planes. And the pitiless will to blacken the rivers with robot blood.

Describe their house or apartment: Another thing – we want to set this in London, right? THERE’S NO SOIL HERE, IDIOT. Ralph would go to Norfolk, meet NOBODY, and gobble bags of loamy dirt like a sad fat girl on prom night. This premise doesn’t just have holes in it. It’s a Swiss cheese with leprosy getting gang-banged by forks.

Describe their work environment: Yes, what would Ralph’s job be like? Oh wait. Ralph wouldn’t have a job, because Ralph is a robot without emotions or motivation. He doesn’t want money, or love, or understanding ,.. just … a big plate of soil. Does that sound like a compelling character I want to invite into my home every week for 22 minutes in prime time? I’d rather watch a fatal house-fire.

Describe where the character shops for groceries: Plus the robot concept has been done, like, a gazillion times, better than I could ever do it, covering every conceivable topic: Transformers, Short Circuit, the android on Star Trek…

What kind of car do they drive? … Blade Runner, Battlestar Galactica, Futurama, The Terminator, everything ever made in Japan…

What kind of clothes do they wear? So this is why we quit a perfectly respectable job selling sports equipment? It’s not too late to go back. Jim said the door was always open. Christ, I’m such a coward. This is why Enid left. It’s only 7.30. The off license is still open. I still have those pictures of her breasts on my phone. Fuck it. Just… fuck it.

For more information about ‘Ralph the Robot’, contact: Brian Walker

c/o The Sports Hut, 27 Burwash Street, Deptford SE8

The bro vs. the old guy

Wonderful scenes in the Lower East Side last night. I leave a bar with my friend Lucas. We see a typical, backwards-cap-wearing bro arguing with an older man in the street. The bro is puffing himself up. He yells a question: “I make a thousand dollars a week, man… what do you make?” The older gentleman replies with amusement: “Me? I’m homeless.”

Homeless with the win.

In the beginning

I have to write this down before I forget it.

My first month doing standup comedy in New York was one of the most exhilarating of my life.

I’d spent years in the improv scene, and it was great. It was missing something, though. Everyone was so well-intentioned and nerdy, and for the most part, adorable. But there was also a slightly dishonest edge. Despite all the lip service to “group mind” and “make the other person look good”, most people were very ambitious. A lot of people approached improv in a very professional, political way. Everyone wanted to be on a UCB house team, and didn’t do much to hide it (I was just as guilty of this). I don’t hold it against anyone. New York is an ambitious place, and the genuine selflessness of improv takes years to cultivate. No one really gets it for half a decade. But the atmosphere had weird side-effects. The scene sits in a desperate fog of permanent forced niceness, like the people Stallone and Snipes meet in “Demolition Man”. No one ever criticized a choice, or a show, or a performer, because who knows how that person could help you later down the road? Everyone told everyone they were great, even though 99% of us were terrible.

I started doing standup, and it was the perfect opposite. No one was “professionalist” in outlook. All standups harbor dreams of being stars, but it’s hard to bullshit your way into anything in standup. Comics (and audiences) can smell that desperate triangulation a mile away, and they hate it. At the open mic level in New York, everywhere you looked were people whose highest goal that day was to be the funniest, most profane pirate possible. Most of the time, they died on their ass. But they were taking real fucking risks. Niceness was refreshingly non-existent. The currency was respect, not empty compliments. If your jokes worked, you were funny. If they didn’t, you bombed, and people laughed at you, but hey: you had the balls to be up there. Props to that. Come back next week.

In that first month, I saw some genuinely unhinged performers. I’ll tell you about three.

1. The female performance artist who sang-spoke acapella rants against two targets. A) men who couldn’t satisfy her sexually, and B) the government for taking her kid away. She performed in a one-piece black thong bathing suit and stripped naked during her act. “Why?” she would scream, “why did you take away my fucking child, Mr. FBI?” (Probably because they saw your act. And the FBI don’t take away kids, you lunatic.)

2. The Japanese comedian who told hacky jokes about shampoo or sandwiches, and capped every single punchline with “Ahhhh, Who Let Da Dogs Out?” (read it in the most stereotypical Asian accent – it’s funnier). He said it at least twenty times in five minutes. By the end he was murdering, each laugh bigger than the last. An early lesson in the power of repetition when you want to get a reaction.  Haven’t seen him since, which is probably a good thing. That magical night can stay special.

3. The 40-something bespectacled white guy who claimed to be a “chemical rapper”. He rapped the Periodic Table in a perfect monotone for ten solid minutes, without telling a single joke, doggedly reading through all 117 elements. By the end it was like a Gregorian Chant, and we listened in awkward, respectful silence. The cheer at the end was one of relief…and disbelief that this had even happened.

These people were unhinged and delusional. It’s a fringe subculture where genuine oddities get as much stage time as “the next big thing”. Ironically, these weirdos were exactly the kind of freaks the improv scene thought they were, but really weren’t.

In addition to these weirdos, I shared stages with the funniest young comics in New York: Mark Normand, Chris DiStefano, Leah Bonnema, Bryson Turner, Michelle Wolf, Monroe Martin… just murderously funny people. Mix that talent with the totally depraved, delusional nutbags? I was hooked immediately.

I’m not done with improv. I think it’s a life-changing thing. I just wasn’t good enough at it, and approached it the wrong way – as a tool to somehow “make it,” or get validation. I’m older now. I realize that was foolish. Next time, I’ll approach it like standup. Where the only instruction is “just work hard and get good.” It’s life greatest lesson.