I love it. It’s not hard to figure out. The screaming toiletheads like demented things surround us in present internet time, television time, raging, screaming, blaming, accusing. As George Will once said, ‘Anger is all the rage’. The Georgian man sussed it out and made it into a war and the people said Yes! By billions of hits.
The toiletheads advance out of nowhere in a state of head-trembling rage, shrieking incoherently, they are in such a state of ungovernable fury that their heads are trembling. That’s the real fascination — the trembling.
In some circles it’s au courant to go into a rage so intense that your head trembles. The toiletheads hate,hate, hate and want to puke blood on you. They come in squads, they’re all killed, they come in more squads.
So as for the basics; the toiletheads are all head and a toilet for a body. The good guys are all body and a camera for a head. There are no women. Well, one maybe.
The cameraheads are calm and emotionally contained. They wear suits, black gloves and don’t puke on things. They interact with each other. When their squads fan out they nod to one another, point, agree, coalesce. They work together in units like military people do, their camera-heads turn to one another, they give each other thumbs-up.
The toiletheads don’t interact. They apparently don’t see one another. They don’t coordinate their actions. They stare straight ahead in their flying toilets, bellowing and doing the head-trembling thing. So they seem like a kind of fecal black magic chattering wildly at very high decibel numbers and hurl themselves in their flying toilets at the cameraheads and the monitorheads, inflamed with head-trembling shrieking rage. They are in a state of extremely primitive emotion. The toilets are perfect; the fury is toxic waste.
It’s a relief when the cameraheads take over the scenario. They are calm, trained and manly. They have broad shoulders and narrow waists, their suits are impeccable, they move forward fearlessly into the Iwo Jima of the industrial-colored streets and take on the toiletheads. They blow them apart. This is their plot, to keep flushing the toiletheads down into some distant acid vat, with their neat black gloves they use the plungers and pull the lever. It’s wonderful.
So that’s it. That’s the plot. Skibidi simply and brilliantly evokes very primal feelings and the very barest of epic bones. David Foster Wallace would have had such fun with this.