Setting sail in a new direction, the company founders commissioned the "USS Setting Goals Instead of Sails". The management ship left the harbor with a happy crew and Mid manager passengers full of enthusiasm and desires to land at their next safe harbor better managers and able to incite blind allegiance from the minions who slave day in day out under their scrutinous eyes.
Upper Management stayed home. Upper Management had no enthusiastic desires to attain better synchronicity among the the rank and file. As long as the bottom line kept climbing, they would hire circus elephants if it kept them in titanium golf clubs and fifty thousand dollar BMWs. If any of them had once been where the seasick passengers on the company ship were now, those memories had been washed away by thousands of martinis served dry at functions designed to solidify their position in the overall pecking order of Life in the Corporate Jungle. Fat and happy, they await the return of employees fired up and ready to help them put even more jingle in their pockets. They are absolutely sure that Capitalism Rocks.
In the meantime Main Street Everymen pull into Wally Mart parking lots across this great land in their oil burning ten year old used conveyances with baby puke encrusted on the back of the seats. Oblivious to the next great conspiracy to separate them from their hard earned money, they enter the belly of the beast. Old fogies wearing blue smocks smile and welcome them as they eagerly grab carts to fill with meaningless trinkets and doodads that will hopefully add some meaning to their lives. Like drones they wander up and down crowded aisles. With so much to pick from, they are sure they have found Nirvana. They wonder if they should have grabbed a second cart.
Passing plastic cards close to magic machines, they leave the 4 acre super store without even dropping one real dollar in the till. Plastic money is endless they think. It is almost like free. Life is wonderful when they shop. Not so much when they are not. Defining their existence by how many bags they throw in the trunk, they head home to hyper-processed TV dinners and Andy Griffith reruns on the TV Land channel.
Satiated and full, many will fornicate. Some will masturbate. Others will pass out after ingesting the best part of that 30 pack they got at a reduced price just hours earlier. And America falls into a fitful slumber. Only criminals and lost souls wander the landscape over the next few hours.
Day in day out, Americans live the life. Day in day out, Americans think they love this Life. But insidious machinations have been utilized from their conception. Strategies have been brought to bear that ensure America will continue to be born to shop. Once proud of our independent ways, now we puff up our chests when our neighbor notices that new super duper stainless steel grill we brought home last week end.
I would love to lay claim to higher ground. I would just as soon rise above the scrambling masses packed like sardines in aisles piled high with plastic electronic gadgets. Alas, I am but one of the masses. Another brainwashed drone prone to buying what is shoved in my direction. I try to resist. Years of Madison Avenue sticking in my craw, I hack and cough and look for the Visa Card.
It is not even a question of being weak. Years of indoctrination 30 seconds at a time have convinced my subconscious that consuming is what a soul needs. Scoring that Thigh Master will save me from the slug that I have become. With every intention of using it as intended, that Thigh Master ends up as a door stop for the basement door when I needed to bring in the 40 pounds of meat I bought for the new coffin freezer in the basement.
We are helpless my friend. Any resistance, even a token gesture is futile. We are what we buy. Ownership of anything reinforces our existence. Inextricably linked through electronic gadgets into the network of slick talkin worms and snake oil salesmen assures our participation in the grand plan.
We own shit, therefore we exist. Descarte would be so proud.
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