I don't care about Barack Obama. Every day at Follet Library Resources, hundreds upon hundreds of books about Obama come filtering through the warehouse – children's books, adult books that read much like the children's books using similar vocabulary and rudimentary style, picture books, comic books, and fantasy books. All of these ride down the humming, mechanical assembly line in totes tattooed with bar codes, sent out to find a specific destination also marked by a code of black lines and spaces. Ultimately, fans and die hards (or hungry, hateful fiends) will find these dementedly dull products of American consumerism and devour their minuscule portions of knowledge. That's how the system works (or at least a simple explanation of its intricate, complex inner workings).
With that sort of logic, I suppose I don't care about the system. I mean, if I don't care about Obama, how can I care about the system in which Obama books are distributed? What fucking sort of question is that anyway?
I don't care about politics. At least not anymore. I used to care. I used to be actively involved during my earlier years in this state of existence, which, aren't that many. These adamant feelings about political involvement stemmed from my intense Republicanism invoked by public education in a Middle Class suburban upbringing. I was implanted with ideas of Americanism, patriotism, and a good, moral structure in which I would be subservient, obedient, humble, and giving to my neighbor, all the while strutting about town in baggy pants whereby horny corporate hyenas with hideous, shrieking laughs could have access to my youthful ass. This was a perfect simulation of hardworking Americans. It was the American dream. I was comfortable. I wasn't struggling day to day and fighting for survival. I was reaching for a carrot dangling higher than my hands could ever possibly grasp, no matter how many growth hormones I ingested.
The irony behind all this was that I cared about politics. Yet, I didn't care about wrestling (not real wrestling but that heavily marketed WWF faux drama wrestling). I cast out one pill for the same one but colored differently – yellow for red. It's like those kids who are swayed to eat anything out of a McDonald's wrapper and forsake the same product in another wrapper, even if it tastes and is composed of exactly the same thing.
Somewhere along the line, however, I stopped caring. I tossed politics aside and considered it melodramatic nonsense that belonged in a Jerry Bruckheimer production, and I really hated Armageddon. That movie sucked. Pearl Harbor did too. It was then that I became a media frenzied aberration. I indulged in the stimulants everyone else of my generation did. I watched the movies. I played the video games. I listened to the music. I submerged myself in the masturbatory fantasy that was 90s entertainment for kids and bought all the products (or begged my parents to make those purchases – asking them sweetly to sacrifice for me the hard earned money they earned from bending over for the corporate machine). At the time, I so eagerly wanted to bend over too, like most of my peers still do. Fuck me you smarmy corporate prick! Fuck me hard! I can take it! You tricked me into wanting to take it, regardless of how much I bleed!
There was a flip of a switch somewhere in that media-induced dream. The hallucination fizzed out, and I began to look at things differently. I was able to look at the cover of Maxim Magazine, see the pretty blonde in the red dress, and point out the faulty placement of her facial features. I could see that one breast was slightly larger than the other, and one arm hung longer than its counterpart. My friends at Wal-Mart mutated into empty ghouls wandering the corridors of American life, yellowish ooze dripping from the corners of their mouths and splattering on the once immaculate phony tile floor. Listless eyes rolled left and right as these ghastly beasts touched and fondled Magic Bullets, cans of Spaghetti-Os, Snuggies, Shamwows, copies of Twilight (also written at a rudimentary level that even stoop lower than the reading levels of people doctors consider to be mentally handicapped), and so on and so forth.
The older denizens in society have an excuse for still playing within the dream. They ultimately realized they were lied to and tricked too late. They are, unfortunately, stuck in a bad record loop of Billie Ray Sirius' “Achy Breaky Heart”. The youthful spuds don't have an excuse. Information is more prominent these days. It's everywhere. Every time a person touches an LCD screen, Internet access is almost a given that could open worlds upon worlds of different thoughts, ideas, realizations, and manifestations. Yet, all these spuds want to do is text one another sultry messages and masturbate in seclusion to dirty thoughts of their betrothed and their friends. Stimulation. Multiple stimulations. They'll masturbate whilst listening to the Jonas Brothers and watching 300. Pleasure centers all over the body all reaching a climax in one high crescendo, and then, during a lull at school, depression hits while these busy-bodies wait to eagerly repeat the same act again and again and again.
Fuck me you smarmy corporate prick! Keep me in this illusion!
There's a cliché quote from William Shakespeare that people like to throw around (most prominently members of the theater community): “All the world's a stage”. Whether or not these people ponder the quote is anybody's guess. Apparently the quote was already a cliché when Shakespeare tossed it in one of his works. Yet, it's meaning can be established a number of ways, depending on the mentality and perceptions of its interpreter. It's just one piece of information that's out there, that is floating about in this web as large as the universe filled with information.
“These creatures have seemingly little or no reasoning power...”
The American dream exists for a few. It's the dream of a few wealthy tightwads to have a nice, fulfilling lifestyle while other brain dead peons change their diapers. These insects work about the hive, so the queens can live happily, and the ants never question or think critically, even though, now more than ever, the possibility exists to do so. It's this hallucinatory drug that steps in the way. This multi-faceted world of media that Marshall McLuhan once wrote about as being the doom of our world will enslave this generation (and generations to come) into a sleep reminiscent of John Carpenter's They Live. They will be stimulated.
Then again, the economy is bad. Rapid technological advances do indeed create an unstable economic market, among other things. Change is happening. Change is coming. Change is here. We have a man – this Barack Obama. He can do it for us? He is one of the most heavily advertised figureheads I have ever witnessed, even moreso than Michael Jackson or any other artist paired with the recently deceased “King of Pop”.
Since the recent generations have become so reliant on this dream to do all the work for them, like a fat senator expects his hooker to do all the work, these little zombies elect an individual to bring about their wishes while they shoot up terrorists in Call of Duty. Mooooooooooooooooooooooom, can you bring me a drink? I can't 'cuz I don't want to leave the realm of Oblivion.
Experienced frat boys will note that good sex comes not from hot chicks, but hot chicks that also are actively involved in the drunken art of after party love-making. The corpses that just lie there are merely empty vessels to release waste into. The keyword behind this idea is: actively. Actively involved. It's this notion of doing something yourself, but beyond that, thinking critically, analyzing the situation, and actively working to pursue the way of life you really want to pursue, deep down, without all the influenced bullshit brought to you by Walt Disney, Kay Jewelers, or GM. Deer-crunching SUVs will not be used to drive on the top of Mount St. Helen, but rather, will be jammed in traffic with some consumer-whoring old woman applying lipstick, texting her evening rendesvous, and checking her tweets, while smashing into the back of some aloof NASCAR fan. At least, that's the reality we, as human beings in Western culture, have constructed (or allowed to be constructed) for ourselves. Is it what we want?
Information is everywhere, and the cake is a lie. Questioning one's religion, upbringing, social status, laws, ethics, morals, and lifestyle is a beautiful thing. It's a reminder that the hamster wheels of the mind are turning.
All the world is nonsense, and all the men and women are merely nonsensical.
I guess the ultimate irony to this whole post is that I will be placing it and linking it to Facebook – the current king wasteland of hallucinations and delusions.
