As I walked into the dimly lit club, It was clear that I had walked into some sort of pseudo-political gathering of a mixture of self-proclaimed 'socialist'
liberal arts students, and the 'bohemian' dropout 'activists' in black turtlenecks they aspire to be once they gain access to their trust-funds. Thinking this is about as shmoofty as things can get, I was (un)pleasantly surprised when a rather large figured
naked woman dragged a
double bass onto the stage, plucked one note, then began a 'spoken word' tirade of the trials and tribulations of her menstrual cycles (occasionally accompanied by another random pluck from the doublebass) and how 'the man' could never
understand the joys of being free. Free to be overweight, hairy and untalented, free to rid themselves of the 'man' in wo'man' and proclaim that she is now a wo'myn'.
As I looked around the room I was awestruck to see that the applause was not just coming from the identical haircut contingent of feminist dykes scattered around the room, but also from the male dominated cliques of skinny and pasty shmoofty skivvy wearing emo fringe-laden
pseudo-intellectual twats. These guys were the pure essence of shmooft. It was at that moment that I realised that being shmoofty was not just a term describing certain actions or objects, but that shmooftiness can itself become an entire way of life to some people, a philosophy in and of itself. Perhaps we only have days or weeks before shmooftology becomes a fully fledged art movement.
