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Shkreli going to jail over Hillary hair bounty is his final masterpiece

Now that Martin Shkreli has lost his freedom, I believe we’ve lost something precious. His commitment to new societal lows will indeed be missed.

 

 

There’s a certain wonderment attached to Martin Shkreli. He possesses that rare knack of being able to make a bad situation worse. But unlike any other bullshit artist, he somehow manages to keep his material fresh. He’s like Beethoven and Cezanne mangling the same tweet. Strangely, he sort of defies lazy description. He’s a pharma-bro, Internet troll, bane of the jury-based legal process, the owner of an extremely punchable face, and the living breathing definition of schadenfreude. He is, from an entirely objective viewpoint, an extremely interesting man.

And he will be missed.

Today, the man once who stepped to the Wu, will now be stepping to Sing Sing, as the State of Noo Yawk has revoked his bail, after they became aware of a Facebook post that Martin wrote, placing a bounty on a lock of Hillary Clinton’s hair. Yes, really. The going rate he offered was $5,000. Which makes me weep for the once-proud bounty hunter industry, if this is the work they’re reduced to.

Back to King Sneer, and just like the Shakespearian antagonists of old, Shrekli was hung by a noose of his own making. In his case, extremely foolish impulse purchases. Now that he’s been carted off to the big house for (potentially) 45 years, I believe that we should light a candle, join hands and sing kumbaya. For the good times of mocking Martin are quickly stepping beyond us.

 

 

Consider today’s captialised headlines as the final shot at the dive bar before it is condemned, knocked down and replaced by a well thought out sensible apartment block. A place we’ll wander past in the future, pointing it out to our kids. That place used to be a different type of soulless. Did I ever tell you about Martin Shkreli? To which they’d probably roll their eyes and grunt unison dismissal, not wanting to hear about Dad’s memelords. How ’bout dat.

If Martin receives his full sentence, as I assume he will, as I doubt that the Justice Department will be able to find ten people in the expanse of the United States who haven’t already made up their minds. Forty-five years in the Folsom Pen is grim, yes, but to the selfish, I think we’ve lost something beautiful. The laughter he gave us, as we cackled in his goblin face. Let’s not forget that sharing the time of Shkreli’s peak is a precious thing. The man might decay in prison, but our memory of him will not. In many ways, his abject bulltwang is the Hendrix Woodstock guitar solo of our generation. You just had to be there to see it, and you wouldn’t get it if you weren’t, even if you researched it extensively in the years to come. To lift a line from litbro Hunter Thompson: ‘…no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world.”

#PutOutYourWuTangForShkreli, it’s going to be a brutal detox.

Protect your neck.

 

 

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