Ben Weasel and The Hulkster: The Fascist Police State of Social Justice

It was a few weeks ago when I left my desolate hellhole of an apartment and ventured out into the real world to see one of my teenage favorites, Screeching Weasel, live in concert.

So as I’m standing there waiting to rock-out to songs like “Veronica Hates Me,” and “Cindy’s on Methadone,” I overheard two adult-children chatting about Ben Weasel, the band’s singer. Before either of these dorks said a word, I knew exactly where the conversation was going: “Did you know he hit a woman?”

A pause, of course, for each dork to recognize the seriousness of such a treacherous act before they both agreed that they were cautious and unsure if they could still like his music… standing there, on the floor of a concert hall, about ten minutes before his band was set to play.

Lets stop there for just a second… Who is Ben Weasel and what does he do? Ben Weasel is the singer of Screeching Weasel, a pop-punk band from Green Day’s original record label, Lookout Records, during the early 1990s. Weasel unwittingly inspired countless punk rock bands to play uninspired music with his 1991 pop-punk bible “My Brain Hurts,” before disbanding Screeching Weasel in the months before punk rock became a seriously mainstream seven-figure business.

Oh.

About two decades later, Ben is up on-stage with Screeching Weasel, playing some punk rock music, when someone starts throwing stuff at him from the audience, and Ben jumps into the crowd to confront the thrower, and then someone attacks Ben from behind and he turns around and pops her… POW, right in the kisser.

Uh oh.

I think if I had a punk rock band I would give myself the stage name “Social Justin.” I don’t know, I think that’s kind of funny.

As I mentioned in my post “Symbolic Incoherence: Millennials, and YOLO,” a hallmark of American culture is their enthusiastic love of hijacking symbols and redefining them to the point where they resemble the intended meaning in name only. If you read any geek website review of the modern versions of Superman and Spider-Man, the characters are re-written to the point where they only resemble their original version in superficial appearances.

American punk rock has been redefined by the Social Justice crowd:

If you take a look at the aesthetic style of the typical Social Justice Warrior they have hijacked and redefined the rebellious aesthetic of 70s-era British punk rock, stripped it of venom and music, and re-defined it through Feminism. The modern Punk Rocker, as Social Justice Warrior, doesn’t “give no fucks” as her aesthetic inspiration had forty-years ago, she instead “gives fucks about anything and everything” (well, except heterosexual white men).

They give fucks about anything and everything. Anything and everything. They live to give fucks. In the culture of perpetual outrage, they are the first to sign up for a social lynching. They scour the Internet in hopes to catch a nasty old Progressive Heretic and crucify his goddamn balls.

Once your balls are sufficiently crucified, you are marked for life as a transgressor. Anytime your name is mentioned the offending incident must be thoroughly explained and re-explained. Never mind your past history, character, or that none of these people actually know you personally- none of that matters! What matters are the few hurried seconds of your social indiscretion.

And since everyone always has a video camera handy, we can catch those motherfuckers in the act. We can literally review every second of a public figure’s life, frame-by-frame, and carefully analyze aggressions and micro-aggressions alike.

Now, of course, I don’t condone the kind of language Hulk Hogan used in the privacy of his private home, away from any television camera or media outlet, being secretly recorded by a lousy friend, but….

Maybe read that sentence over…

The Hulkster seemed a bit nervous in his interview segment at Wrestlemania IV, before he took on Andre the Giant… not nervous that he couldn’t beat the Giant, nor was he nervous about getting the Giant up in “the largest arms in the world” for a bodyslam… Hulk was feeling trepidatious after he got a look at the little Hulkamanics in the crowd. The little Hulksters were afraid.

You see, they understood that when Hulk got the big Giant up and slammed him down in the middle of the ring, through the floor of the Trump Plaza (hotel and casino), the impact would be so powerful that it would set-off an as-yet unknown fault line between New York and Florida which would end up destroying the Trump Plaza entirely.

Everyone there will fall into the ocean where Hulk will first pin Andre for the three-count, and then pin his next two opponents against the ocean floor, before taking a moment to pause and look back at the wreckage… there he’ll see a conflicted Donald Trump… still hanging on to the destroyed Trump Plaza, with his family under his arm, unsure of what to do, but since Trump is a Hulkamaniac, he’ll intrinsically understand to let go of his material possessions and swim his family to safety.

And if Trump runs out of gas on the way, if any of the little Hulksters run out of gas, they can take hold to the largest back in the world, and Hogan will backstroke them all to safety!

Why does any of this matter? This is what Hulk Hogan does professionally. This is why Hulk Hogan is famous; whatever Terry Bollea says privately matters a whole lot less.

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When I asked Ben Weasel if he had read the blog I wrote about him, he said:

Punk rock.

Follow me on Twitter @KillToParty

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