Doge Blocker [updated] 99%

Without “much wow,” you are left with just “wow.” And sometimes, that is scarier than any dog.

In the spring of 2024, I installed a Doge Blocker. Not because I hate the Shiba Inu. On the contrary, I have a framed photo of the original 2010 “Doge” meme on my desk. I love Doge. And that is precisely the problem. doge blocker

What I realized, staring into the void of my filtered feed, is that Doge was never a meme. It was a . Like “um” or “like,” it filled the gap between genuine feeling and the terror of being perceived. “Much wow” allowed us to express awe without vulnerability. “So scare” let us admit fear as a joke. By blocking the signifier, I didn’t destroy the emotion; I just stripped it of its armor. Without “much wow,” you are left with just “wow

So, do I recommend the Doge Blocker? Only if you are ready for the consequences. It is a small rebellion against the tyranny of the recycled laugh. It is a vote for awkward silence over canned laughter. It is a lonely, beautiful choice to face the internet naked. On the contrary, I have a framed photo

The irony of the Doge Blocker is that it forces you to grow up. You realize that you don’t miss the dog. You miss the permission the dog gave you to feel simple joy. You miss the algorithm’s gentle hand guiding you back to a familiar punchline. You miss the safety of the in-joke.

We have entered the era of , where a joke isn’t allowed to die, but is instead reanimated into a shambling, corporate zombie. Doge, originally a sweet, absurdist payload of early-2010s internet culture, has undergone a horrifying metamorphosis. It is no longer a dog. It is a currency (Dogecoin). It is a political symbol (the “Chiweenie” of decentralization). It is a marketing tactic for fast-food chains. It is a reaction image used by your boss to signal he is “down with the kids.”