Free will is an illusion. Right? I mean, shit. Think about it. Are you reading these words because you truly choose to read them, or are you reading them because some irresistible outside force—an algorithm, a push notification, a multi-tentacled malevolent deity—has pre-ordained that you arrive at this very moment, under these specific circumstances, to learn that two dudes named Taylor Field and Chad Sasko have just debuted a product they call the “brokini.”
Does it even matter? I mean, really. If we are set on a course—if every decision we think we’re making is just pushing us further and further along on a path not of our own choosing—would you even want to know? Could you even comprehend it, if someone told you? If I ran up to you right now shouting, “Dave! Dave! You’ve got to stop reading about brokinis or your grandmother is going to poison your dog!” would that do anything other than inspire the same emotions (revulsion, fear) you would feel if I did all that wearing a brokini? Would you stop? Would your dog be OK?! It’s impossible to say!
Here’s another way to look at it: If you, Dave (and, Dave, I want you to know this isn’t a coincidence; free will really is an illusion and I always had to write this just for you, Dave) were to walk up to me and tell me, “Jonathan, you obnoxious asshole, stop writing about brokinis with this stupid fucking reflexive, sneering meta-commentary stance because you are playing directly into the brokini lobby’s hands by giving these guys free publicity,” would I even be able to hear you? Could I possibly save your dog?
I dunno, man. It's probably not all that complicated, if I’m being honest with you (Dave). Probably a couple of young guys from Toronto, engulfed in constant bachelor-party sartorial fuckery, decided that if they and their friends are going to get dressed up in some stupid shit—and, crucially, if a bunch of other guys like them are going to do the same—it might be cool to make some money off of that. And since a one-shouldered sorta-Speedo is exactly the kind of thing a bunch of rowdy 20-something guys with a gutful of skunked Molson would delight in wearing before switching to the evening attire of loudly printed, cheaply produced matching suits, the brokini was born.
Here’s a small dose of earnestness before you go: If you are the type of person to delight in wearing a brokini, and you are surrounded by other folks who feel the same way, godspeed to you and please be sure to sunscreen up. If you aren’t that type of guy (Dave), then I implore you to find a new group. Or maybe you’re already going to do that anyway. I mean…it’s not like it’s really your choice. Or is it?
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