You're not supposed to leave Videodrome thinking "Long Live the New Flesh."
When you are cut, you bleed.
You are really a correlationist in disguise if you are fixated on the flesh creeping demise of humanity.
Foucault's face in the sand requires an ocean to erase it. What makes you think you are part of that ocean?
Isn't the quintessence of humanism to be horrified? Pascal, Descartes, Zizek.
Isn't horror fundamentally idealist? Esse est horrere.
The "tear-jerking modern rift"* of subject-object dualism wasn't stimulating enough. You require more of the same stimulation.
Yours is the latest in a series of sadistic consumerist pleasures that situate part of your experience at an infinite distance from the object of experience. As Julia says in Hellraiser, “You wanted to see. You wanted to know.”
How many more reruns of Frankenstein before we get it?
Humanism is already a fractured relationship with the inhuman. That's the problem, not the solution.
You laugh at the poor deluded lab rats in their cages when you laugh at humans as poor deluded lab rats in their cage of science. In so doing, you only laugh at yourself. Same old same old. Down with the weak. Down with the abject other.
The thrill of the “post-” is predicated on the abjection of the “sub-.”
One second of compassion is more disturbing than 2000 years of sadomasochistic thrills.
You have not yet learnt that "There is no metalanguage," for all your cynicism.
You are not yet human.
“When you're finished playing with your box, can you please help us? Love, 20 000 polar bears.”