You might think Instagram is all about photography. Not so, says David Kolbusz.
"Instagram is a writer's medium," the creative director declares at the top of his feed. And he makes a good case for that with his posts—a hodgepodge of everyday shots brought to life with hilariously twisted, ranty, profanity-laced captions.
Kolbusz frequently tees off on society's ills, harboring a particular distaste for idiotic technological "advancements." (Recent recurring targets include selfie sticks and hoverboards.) But some of the best posts are almost like short stories, as Kolbusz invents a whole ludicrous backstory to the image presented.
Check out a handful of our favorite posts below.
Kolbusz—a decorated creative who moved to Droga5 London recently as chief creative officer after stints at Wieden + Kennedy and BBH London (where he made the best ad of 2012 and appeared, in a pig's mask, on Adweek's cover)—declined to comment for this story.
But follow him on Instagram, and let his insane, inspired copy do the talking.
Another year has drawn to a close and – like gazing into a latrine with morbid fascination at the filthy shit you've just done – it's time to take stock. The good news is the mistakes you've made will slide comfortably out of focus tonight as you imbibe a month's worth of toxins into your bloodstream under the guise of ringing in le nouvelle année. Me, I've always spent the night sober, getting my high from le frisson de l'aventure. Par example – 1967. I remember it like it was yesterday. Sidney Poitier and I took a plane to British Mauritius to ring in the new year. I'd just opened my first store on le Rive Gauche and Sidney was the toast of Hollywood! We landed not knowing a single soul, but did that stop us from making friends? Did it fuck. We hastily assembled a cast of locals to help us reenact a scene from his latest picture – 'Guess Who's Coming to Dinner' – in the Port Louis town square. Sid played his part from the film – a young black doctor brought home to meet his fiancee's racist white parents. I naturally assumed the role of his bride to be. Then we paid two tramps to play the Katherine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy roles, hurling vicious invective at us (in the way only tramps can), disapproving of our mixed race union for two hours until the clock struck minuit. By quarter past the hour we'd received a standing ovation that kept the audience of the East African colony clapping their chapped hands together until their fingers bled. Point being, live every night like it's your last because most people die in their sleep. Happy 2016, you absolute sons of bitches. You have all my love. Signed, New Years Yves.
Not since the selfie stick has a modern day "innovation" made me pray for a nuclear Iran to wipe us all off the face of the fucking earth like the Hoverboard. If this is the kind of shit we keep churning out…if this is progress…civilisation needs to end now because we reached our peak with biodegradable packaging and online porn. I mean look at this cunt with his too-large suit and blue canvas "kick-the-shit-out-of-me-at-recess" briefcase. Does he think he's going to wheel up to his 10am sales meeting and everyone's jaws are going to hit the fucking floor and they'll be like "we'll take all the boring, shitty annuities you're selling because your chosen method of transportation inspires confidence within us that you have the ability to know the future"? Like fuck. And here's the other thing. I don't know what shit-for-brains decided to call it a Hoverboard, but guess what – it has wheels. It doesn't even look like it's hovering unless you're watching it drive past at top speed and you have glaucoma.
#ThrowbackThursday to that time I did a demo with a virtual reality headset and for a brief, fleeting moment I assumed the role of a wanted man on the run, convicted of a crime he didn't commit. And I laughed it off and was all like, "That was kind of fun I guess" but then hours later I awoke from my sleep at 4:33am, bathed in an icy layer of sweat, having suffered through what felt like somebody else's nightmare with the unshakeable feeling that I had killed a man. And I'm under a bridge and everything is cold and dark and I'm wandering the streets with a bloodied knife in my hand and I don't know whose blood it is and I am asking anyone who'll listen if they've seen my son and HAS ANYBODY SEEN MY SON and where did this suitcase full of money come from and I'm offering the money to a homeless woman I've never met before and there is a shrieking Lernaean Hydra in each of her eyes and I'm begging her to kill me PLEASE KILL ME so I can just wake up but how will I know if I'll return to the life to which I'm accustomed or if everything will just be over and I'll cease to exist and fuck this Oculus Rift shit I don't care how much it improves my brand experience.
What kind of dipshit conquistador drops his wineskin in the middle of the road and doesn't take notice? After a long, hard day of colonizing and establishing trade routes, this prick's going to reach for a drink of water and find himself with nary a drop to wet his lips. I'll tell you what – for a second I even felt bad for the guy! Maybe he lost a mule to heatstroke on the canyon trail. Or perhaps he was distracted by an all-consuming bout of diphtheria. But then I was like, "You think Cortes would've lost his rations mid-Aztec overthrow? Would Ponce De Leon have been left dry-mouthed and wanting in his quest for the Fountain of Youth? The fuck he would. Why, even a Basque shepherd tending to his flock's peregrination would've managed to hold on to his water bag. No, my friends…this is fucking amateur hour. And that pendejo deserves what he gets.
Awwwwwww shit. Check out someone else's Lamborghini, motherfucker. Any dickhead can take a photo of themselves standing in front of another man's luxury vehicle but you gotta get pretty fucking lucky to snap that shit while the driver's still in the front seat. He was all like, "What are you doing?" and I was like "Takin' a photo of myself in front of a car I'll never have the money to buy, bitch!" but the "bitch" part I said only in my head. And he was like "Well don't." And called me an asshole. Which is a difficult thing to hear when you're working through some self esteem issues.
Oh yeah, good. Storm off. Like you always fucking do. Because that's a really healthy way to handle anger. Jesus Christ, Brenda. You can throw one of your little hissy fits but at some point we both know you're going to have to turn around and engage with me. Look – no one ever said dating a smoker's pole was going to be easy but I'd like to think we've had some good times together. Maybe even great times. Enough that we owe it to ourselves to find a way through this. What do you want, an apology? Here's the thing – I'm not sorry. It's perfectly reasonable for me to want to hang out with other cigarette butt receptacles once in a while. You call it "love" but your constant and unrelenting affection can be so…oppressive at times. You're lucky I don't have any fine motor skills. If I wasn't entirely reliant on you for transportation I'd give you a taste of your own medicine. You'd turn around one day and I'd be gone. No smoker's pole to push around anymore. You know…I wouldn't have to put up with this horseshit if I was carved out of solid mahogany. Women would be falling all over me if I was an ashtray made of solid mahogany.
Hey fuckface, here's an idea. Instead of dicking around our nation's sidewalks like an overweight tourist with a camera and a passion for sightseeing, why don't you use the hundred billion square degrees of sky that God gave you as a viable transportation option? I get that cranes are ground-dwelling birds, but given the fact that you can technically fly at an altitude of up to five thousand feet, it makes your lazy Sunday stroll seem at best like a callous exercise in sloth and at worst, an insult to human bipeds. It's a bit like Enzo Ferrari taking the bus. We all know what you've got at your disposal and not putting it to good use just makes you look like a bit of a cunt.
#ThrowBackThursday to that time I was at a cocktail party with Maya Angelou and I'm telling her about how much I loved "I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings" and asking how she feels about changing the very nature of the autobiographical format and I'm waiting for her answer and she's giving me this dead-eyed stare but finally she breaks the silence and says, "It's 'I Know WHEN The Caged Bird Sings', prick." And I instantly start sweating and going back into the recesses of my mind wondering how I could've got the title wrong and after what seems like an eternity she bursts into laughter and says, "Relax, I'm fucking with you". And I start laughing too. Harder and louder than I ever have before – in part out of sheer relief – and both of us laugh for what feels like a solid five minutes. Finally after we catch our breath she says to me, "Why don't we go into one of those bedrooms and you show me what you can do with that tongue of yours." And I'm like, "You're still fucking with me, right?" And she's like, "I'm serious as cancer." So I kind of wring my hands a bit and tell her, "Maya, I'm not really comfortable with…" Then she goes ice cold, looks off into the distance, and says, "You tell anyone about this and not a single fucking soul will believe you." And without making eye contact she spits her gum in my drink and walks away. And I'm like, "Shit! Maya Angelou chews gum?"
It's gotta fucking sting when someone moves into your building with a cooler version of your name. I mean, Kurt's alright I guess but you throw a handful of vowels and consonants onto the back of that shit and it basically makes you impossible to fuck with. Who's going to kick your ass because he's been sitting down and hasn't used his legs for anything in a while? Kurttepeli. Who decides to buy a new car but instead of trading in his old one, takes the opportunity to crash it? Kurttepeli. Who's going to steal your girlfriend even though he forces her to sign a legally-binding contract guaranteeing their relationship will require no ballet, shopping trips, or sharing of feelings? Kurttepeli. Basically, if that guy with that name moves into your building you've got two options: kill yourself or get a court order and change your name to Kurttepelio.
No no no, sweetheart…it's not what you're thinking. I was using the term "hardcore" in a completely different context. As in "driven" or "passionate". You know…like when people say "he worked all night – that guy's hardcore." Or "she was so hardcore she got through elective surgery without anaesthesia." Does that make sense? I don't know – maybe hardcore was a bad choice of word. Maybe I should've used "dedicated". Yes, on second thought "dedicated" is much better. And "Asian"? Well, Asia is a large continent isn't it? It encompasses Southeast Asia too, right? Like Pakistan! Did you know that Pakistan was created in 1947 as an independent nation for Muslims from the regions in the east and west of the Subcontinent where there was a Muslim majority? Fascinating stuff, really. Now, being a new nation and everything, you gotta imagine they're "hungry" to prove themselves, right? Those guys are passionate. Take their call centers, for instance. You've phoned your bank and got a call center based in Pakistan, right? Unbelievably buttoned-down. They run them like machines. They're basically sluts for efficiency. Sluts for making things happen. Which is why I use the term "sluts" as a compliment! So you see – when "Hungry Hardcore Asian Sluts" comes up in my Internet search history, really it's like I typed "Dedicated Pakistani Call Center Employees Who'll Do Anything To Succeed".