Sietze Bosman delves into the underbelly of the Eurovision contest, where sinister forces in entertainment conspire to mold Europe’s cultural landscape with their grotesque visions of art and identity.

Deep within the bowels of the modern machine of entertainment, the preparations for the Eurovision contest are underway. Hordes of savvy advertising snakes, malevolent marketers, and pernicious producers are brooding on their next entries for this infernal contest. They skulk about in their hatcheries of hallucinatory horrors. Like maggots clumped together in a rotting cadaver, bursting forth when their numbers become too great, so do the malevolent miscreants of musical malfeasance spew forth from the rotten corpse of the “industry.” Like prepackaged, prescribed, and pretentious amorphous blobs of ordinality, they roll off the asinine assembly line of “popular culture.”

There are no words that can transmit enough derision to accurately describe the visceral loathing that one should feel towards this contest. Eurovision, fuck me… these people have a vision of Europe as being devoid of any beauty, any excellence, any effort. A Europe as a collection of imploded nationalities that come together not on race or tradition, but on the ability to produce surreptitious sub-standard, vociferous, and vomitory compositions of sweltering degeneracy.

The level of soul-sucking, life-draining, testosterone-depleting, scrotum-crushing, mind-melting, torturous anti-humanness must be considered a veritable crime against humanity. The decomposing flesh of the Europe of greatness and excellence is exuding putrid corpse juice, and this contest is nothing more than a stew cooked from the decanted cadaverous liquefaction and the addition of a bucket full of the hot industrial emesis.

European is now being made to mean pronoun-wielding, sexually deviant, ethnically plural, rootless, ambiguous attractiveness, shallow, fluid, and obtuse. When you read the website for the contest, you can easily fall under the impression that the art these miscreants produce is of actual value, because all the language used to shape your opinion on the “artist” is stuffed to the hilt with vague, general language aimed at giving some edgy context for their so-called “art.” But true art does emphatically not need a story, it speaks for itself. Only shit modern art needs paragraphs of post-modern ramblings to give it anything approaching meaning.

By institutionalizing the facilitation of gender ideology and pronoun use, and accompanying mandatory grammatical adaptations, the event that should embody the very best Europe has to offer instead normalizes mental illness and “reality dysphoria.” Glossing over the palet of pansexual participants, one has out-of-body experiences descending into the ninth circle of hell. These people do not seem real, or even human. The Eurovision contest seems geared towards one giant cohort of spiteful mutants, which somehow unfortunately evaded natural selection.

This whole shyster shindig is one giant orgy of gayness, transgenderism, interraciality, tackiness, vulgarity, and vacuousness. I mean, read the quote below:

Cork-born alt disruptor Bambie Thug is smashing through gender and socio-political stereotypes to create an era-defining sound that borders on elements of pop, rock, electronic and more.

Few things sound more pretentious than “era-defining,” unless you are into dark voodoo satanism and odd casual sacrificial ritual, of course. In fact, this quote is entirely so indicative of the gist of the contest and all its media attention; it is to destroy any sense of the normal. “Smashing through gender and socio-political stereotypes” is just a thinly veiled euphemism for forcefully rebranding the established values and replacing them with anti-human values. To be sure, the values espoused by these merchants of wokeness are, in essence, anti-life.

Writing this article and researching the website for the contest has turned out to be quite an exercise in self-flagellation, and I find myself making a “two girls one cup” type face all the time. For those unacquainted with this reference, it is watching people making faces as they watch a video of two girls taking a shit, stuffing the turd in an ice-cream cone and gobbling on it together. Yummy, right? Well, if you’ll forgive me for this sidestep of gratuitous banality, sometimes the message can only be brought home with a sledgehammer.

So, it seems that this year’s contest will offer something to every type of kink out there. They sure make an effort, especially Australia, whose entry probably tics the most boxes. An interracial, transgender, gay duo, singing in native Aboriginal language. I’d like to see what the Aboriginals think of these people’s outlook on life. Somehow, I don’t think they are impressed by an Oreo genderfluid duo appropriating their language.

If this is the best Europe has to offer, then I wish the event a quick visit from the ever-ill-tempered dragon of desolation, Smaug, to set ablaze this wretched freak show, this heinous house of horrors, this circus of corruption, this debacle of debauchery.

Having completed this recalcitrant rant, I am now left with trying to get this visual hell, which has been burned into my retinas, out of my eyes. Perhaps a good dousing of bleach will help. In fact, tabasco mixed with sand and gasoline seems a mild wash compared to the torment one goes through watching the worst of the rock-bottom worst Europe has to offer. If you still want to go see, you have been warned.