The Devil and Daniel Johnston

Can anybody tell me what’s going to happen to the documentary genre when all the profileable musicians, poets, painters, and writers in the world aren’t junkies and drunks and cheddarheaded retards anymore but instead get their jollies shopping at Whole Foods and going to spin class three times a week?

You laugh, but it’s happening. Ten years ago it wasn’t an art party unless everyone was coked out of their minds and someone was sucking dick next to the keg. Now I can’t excuse myself for an after-dinner cigarette without feeling like the entire table blames me for the ozone, oil dependency, and the decimation of family farms. Well, I’ve fucking had it. I’m going to need artists to throttle down their non-violent war to reverse the institutionalization of gender roles in America one of their perfectly enlightened boutique babies at a time and get back to, like, taking dumps on hookers and shit, mkay?