A Comprehensive Analysis and Introduction to The City’s Fastest-Growing Lifestyle - COCLÉ

      Appropriate understanding and acceptance of the mighty way of life this thesis refers to as Coclé should already be considered mandatory for ensuring one’s survival in this Land of Plenty. Shall one choose to live inside its infamous boarders, let alone thrive within them, one shall make the following pages his go-to appendix when it comes to hanging his hat in said sweet, little city of whores. Still plagued by the upshots of socialism, the cancer that ate its already-fragile foundation for forty years, this small, Easter-European country has it all - widespread drug trafficking, rampant prostitution, flagrant money-laundering, Mafia-owned politicians… The seven o’clock news offering enough incentives to state that, 'round town, crime comes in all shapes and in all walks of life. A daytime-battleground for the left-praising majority and right-leaning minority, the city swiftly turns into a nighttime-playground for the foreign plastic millionaires, storming in from hundreds of miles away just to get a taste of the local Copa de la Vida - tacky clubs filled with cheap sluts, fast cars paid from dope and whores, and raves that shelter rapes… Add to this the regional nouveaux riches and you get the typical night of fun in the city's North side, certainly the epitome of Coclé.

After the king was forced to abdicate and sent into exile (moment in which the little hope the country still nourished was gone for good), the plague known as socialism swallowed and eviscerated the country for forty years, the tokens of communism still very present in these days’ reality, embedded in the minds and souls of most of the locals. Today, the ideological battle is being fought between the main socio-demographical groups - the honest folk and Coclé (the name this thesis attributes to big, loud bullies that came to money overnight and know no limit when it comes to flashing their tainted fortunes and innate lack of breeding), and the capital (especially its northern area), seems to be the most prominent battleground.

When one first hears the phrase Coclé Land, one might imagine it as this one specific area, regardless its size, Coclé most identify with. Sadly, there is no one particular area they call home - Coclé feel at home everywhere they go. Therefore, Coclé Land is nothing more than an abstract, even metaphorical place... Or, if one truly wants to associate it with a specific area, that should be none other than the northern side of town. The most expensive neighborhood, and especially the most expensive street in the country have performed as something beyond the traditional sense of the word magnet when it comes to luring Coclé from all over the country. Their invasion began ten-fifteen years ago and is still going strong to this day. The Coclé exodus from the countryside to the city is well-rooted into the invasion that took the town by storm in 1990, right after the fall of the Red Plague.

Back then, people from all over the country, that before 1990 were prohibited from entering the city, let alone residing in it, assaulted the capital, trading the carts for the subway and their shoves for political offices. At first, they were keeping it mostly to themselves, feeling like outcasts in a place the luckiest of them only saw on the local bar’s TV... Then, as years went on and this hell of a century unfolded, they came into a little bit of money, regardless their means, and procreated. It is especially them and their offsprings these pages describe as Coclé. The genesis of the word is fairly simple, and obvious to most locals - the word itself refers to a metal coated with verdigris, but it is the figurative sense of the word that contributed to the genesis of the term Coclé. In the local language, call signs for loud and tacky peasants come a dime a dozen... But the beauty of Coclé is that the term is attributed only to those that are both peasants and New Money - most famously, the first generation of bullies that feels comfortable inside the city (about ninety percent, if not more, of the first generation of Coclé were born out of town, despite acting like they own it...).

When it comes to recognizing a Coclé, all one has to do is look at the subject in front of him. For men, the typical tokens are the beards and tattoos. You might stumble across a beard, some tattoos for sleeves, or the deadliest combo of them all - both signs of ill repute. Also, the Coclé attire wouldn’t be complete without making a loud, bold Coclé statement - for that, they employ the help of the ever-fateful undercut hairstyle - shaved or almost-shaved on the sides and a little longer on top, designer T-shirts, most commonly white; designer Peter-Pan jeans, stone-washed or acid-washed, extra-slim and above the ankle so that the Y-shaped logs they try to pass for legs can spill over; white sneakers, usually high-tops... and the already-traditional German car (here, white enjoyed a fabulous ride as well, but a close examination will crown black as the star of the last say... five to seven years). In extreme cases of Coclé, the subject may go in for a manicure and leave with nail lacquer or can professionally trim the leeches he struts as eyebrows... Encountering one such Coclé can prove dangerous for anyone outside their circle, so treat with caution. Also, there seems to be a lot of care and meaning attributed to their tattoos - they are by no means mere tribal identification. No... Every stain has a profound reason behind it, a deep, emotional incentive, being strongly rooted in the Coclé’s past experiences.

Another reliable indicative of the Coclé-men is the Coclé-walk... Yes, they even walk in a certain way. They are always short and almost every single time fat, or at least thick, so, in a desperate effort to make it look like they stretch more upwards than sideways, they arch their backs - they keep them very stiff, push their chests out (the upper part of their bodies marked by man boobs in about eighty percent of the cases) and almost don’t flex their knees at all - they mostly drag their feet like a pendulum. They have narrow foreheads and slim eyes shoved inside their skulls. Their diagonal shoulders move independently from their legs and hips, always describing small circles, and most of the young Coclé keep them covered with designer vests on crew-necks or polo T-shirts. Most of the Coclé-men also wear tracksuits and caps to the mall, a place where they go on Sundays and shop till they drop, then take their calls and talk as loud as they can, holding their white or gold phones with two of their fat fingers and their arms horizontally, with the elbow sticking out.

There are many elements that could be introduced as tokens of the Coclé-man’s psychological profile. He is loud and vindictive, dumb and proud... He considers himself to be the king of the mountain (with the mountain being the club, city or even country), a force all the rest can do nothing about but endorse. Most of the young Coclé-men study business, with a few exceptions enrolled into sports or engineering programs. Sports play a significant part in their lives, being avid soccer fans - playing it in real-life or on their consoles. Their interest in studying business comes from their hopes, and promises made by their parents, that one day they will inherit the family ventures - the ones their fathers use to keep their mothers in diamonds and pearls through money-laundering and tax evasion, all made possible by their fathers’ connections in politics and police (somehow, the older Coclé-men manage the performance of spending every night with their cocks in every whore the clubs have to offer and still bank north of ten grand a month... Ain’t that something?). 

      Entertainment is one aspect almost every sigle Coclé-man sees a brother in the other... Modern music and movies are what they live for when they are not banking millions or sowing the wild oats, all Coclé considering anything older than a year ancient news. They have a weakness for rap, trap, house and any other bric-a-brac of the sort. Most of the young Coclé prefer what’s known as an open-relationship. The oximoron is a mix of serial dating and the traditional notion of a relationship - they sweet-talk a firecracker into believing in their happily-ever-after, telling her what they’ve got is real, that they are in a serious, stable relationship, then take her out two or three nights a week. When that’s done with, they hit the clubs with their buddies and spend the night with their cocks in burning clients’ mouths. 

Coclé young and old are avid drivers and car enthusiasts, the day they get their licenses being one of the most important days of their lives, most starting driving lessons even before the age of eighteen. Every young Coclé has at least one car, and the older ones present their brats with new Germans the day the brat turns eighteen, the car awaiting with a ribbon in front of the club.

The older Coclé can be regarded as enhanced versions of their younger homologues - they are violent to both their women and men outside the circle. They are the backbone of the Coclé family - the providers. They are the ones breaking sweat in the clubs all night long, then striking gold every time they enter their offices. Well-connected to the government and police, or directly to the mob, they live like there’s no tomorrow. The heavyweight Coclé have enough friends in high places to open nightclubs, casinos, private schools and clinics, hotels and modeling agencies that they later use for money-laundering, drug or/and human trafficking. The young Coclé are also entrepreneurs - a title almost worshiped among the Coclé-women. The older Coclé cheat on their wives, then throw money or even exotic holidays and diamonds their ways in hopes of whisking their wives’ minds off their endless indiscretions. The clubs are the older Coclé’s sanctuary, and the whores that roam them his escape from a life of toil - a few corrupt businesses and a long-since-pleased wife. So, it’s Tuesday nights at this club, Thursday nights at that club, weekends spent fishing with the guys, their rods in the trunk and their cocks in young sluts’ mouths in exchange for that month’s rent.

As for the Coclé-women, if one wants to identify them, all one has to do is look for the following physical tokens of pain and misery dressed-in-gold: acrylics, lashes and extensions; Botox and all sorts of junk shoved in their faces, thighs and asses. They wear stilettos and make-up to the pool and beach and you can almost see the tracks of the hard toil they put in to attain the glamours life they now enjoy - the pathways on their acid-filled lips and their ever-purple knees.

There’s a permanent competition between the Coclé-families, especially among the Coclé-women: who gets the most expensive cars, who struts the biggest diamonds and who gets to suck their lackluster husband on the most exotic beaches. So, to keep up with the younger threats that come a-knockin’ to their husbands’ designer jeans, they inject all they can find in their faces, tits and stashes, go to any possible kind of massage and try to hit the gym at least three times a week, all while counting their calories - oh baby, it’s hard work being a Coclé-woman... If the extreme cases of Coclé-men go for manicures and trimming, the extreme cases of Coclé-women are vegans and fierce feminists. Most of the Coclé-women have kids just to tie their husbands down and they give their brats modern, liberated names... And they never tell them no, no matter what the brat does and how many people he disturbs inside the restaurant his lungs are bursting at. They hire nannies to raise the brats and send their offsprings to private schools, then they fill every hour of the kids’ spare time with extracurricular activities - especially soccer and German for boys, ballet, piano and French for girls (lately, Asian languages have been on the rise in the Coclé-mothers’ choices... some of them even adopting aboriginals).

This, and the American wedding are just two of the many 'traditions' they imported into this fair country. They saw a couple of movies, liked the ideas of 'baby showers', 'bridesmaids', 'bachelor' and 'bachelorette' parties and 'best man' and shoved them into their lives, then slowly into the entire local Coclé-society, none of which happened in the country ten-fifteen years ago, before they created this cheap-copy society they now adore.

Long-since-laid by the ones they signed for, Coclé-women turn their personal trainers into personal escorts - they are young Coclé-men that use them for a fast fuck and a big tip paid with the plastic of the Coclé-husband. Ever since the China virus, the Coclé-women are not even bothering to hide it anymore - they meet their 'trainers' out in the open, in the park... They jerk it around with light dumbbells and five squats in front of a bench, then they cross the street and take the fun upstairs - that’s where the real jerking happens, all while the husband is breaking sweat, pulling strings for his next hard-earned million.

Coclé-women are the epitome of the twenty-first century: they are fierce feminists and unwavering libtards. About half of them are vegetarians, and half of that are vegans... Some might own dogs (French Bulldogs and Pomeranians - the most dashing of them all), but it’s the servants that walk them... They mostly own them for the five times a year they take them to the park to cruise for new potential sponsors while recharging their batteries after a night of toil in the club. More than half of the Coclé-women combine the work in the clubs with video-chatting and high-class prostitution - hence the title of travel addict in their bios. Indeed, they travel all year, from one island to another, wherever their work takes them - wherever the client happens to be or feels like going for a blowjob in the sun.

You will find that almost every Coclé-family will keep their interaction with decent people, those outside of the Coclé-circle, to a bare minimum. The Coclé-fathers almost forbid their daughters to suck any guy outside the sty and their wives to hang with women outside the Coclé-society. That’s because aliens could, and most probably would, start talking - reveling to the Coclé-men’s wives and daughters their true might. Plus, you never know who the Coclé-women might stumble upon - one of the guys might work for a free commissioner or even the local IRS, and the Coclé-men might end up in bracelets before sunset. So, any external contact is strongly discouraged, even prohibited in extreme cases - like in the Mafia, Coclé keep it all in the family - dinners, holidays, birthdays... All within the same group.

Coclé are also the ones that make Instagram go 'round - they live to show off their fairytale lives. As they say, they are blessed (no kidding, they even say it in their bios...). They make their lives seem like one endless party - champagne in the clubs, designer clothes, cars north of half a million... Falco called them Les Nouveaux Riches (New Money), and even has a song about them, in which he talks about how they show their lack of breeding and piss-poor taste, how they cheat on each other, how they go to Acapulco, Monaco, Nice or Switzerland... And how all the men can brag about are their plastic millions and cars. Mind you, Falco studied and made fun of them in ’86... Things have gotten a lot worse almost forty years down the road... (but this country has always been forty-fifty years behind the West, so it is only natural that the first Coclé waves are still riding high inside its boarders...).

Coclé-women are either housewives, or strong, independent, businesswomen. Most of the younger Coclé-women study psychology, with a few exceptions into finance. The Coclé-men might throw one of their business their way so that they can drive them into the ground - a club, a salon, a restaurant... you name it. They are fierce liberals and freedom crusaders - in their perspective, everyone is free to do whatever they want, but you’ll find that everyone actually applies only to the Coclé-sty - the second an alien voices his disdain when affected by a Coclé, he will quickly be labeled small-minded, jealous and hater.

They let their brats roam the restaurants, scream at the mall and poke other kids’ eyes out at the kindergarten, encourage their husbands to walk proud, like they own the world, and they never shy away from voicing their opinions, especially their strong disapproval for the way things used to be... It is precisely their core principles I employed in writing this paper.

In conclusion, the Coclé are here to stay. There’s nothing anyone can do about it. Their lines are getting stronger day by day and their hold on the country will probably never wane... All an alien can do is skip town or endure them. Whatever one does, one should never try to explain to a Coclé that he or she is Coclé, or engage them... Both Coclé-men and Coclé-women grew up among the sheep or playing soccer between the blocks - they are used to both verbal and physical confrontation and know no restraints... You’ll be in for full mayhem. It is best to consider the city as their property, get your job done and leave this mighty country behind for good.