This image is foreign and repulsive. So aesthetically alien in nature that your first reaction should be “Holy-Afro-Jesus!” And yet, my erupting volcanular Subconscious of Probability spews forth, the very instant I lay eyes on it, an aerial view of the fictional McDonalds advertising campaign character "The Hamburgler"; that masked, ground-meat-obsessed convict, albeit now sporting a full hemisphere of visible brain.
I found it immediately very strange that my subconscious should rearrange the beauty of nature into the trans-fat laced carnage that is brought forth by the Devils Own Butcher. How could I possibly fail to miss the minutia of beauty to be found in the evolutionary process, whilst craving the sensation of being served meat by five soulless minimum wage searchers; those who aimed high and fell, and those who never got off the ground at all. My thought processes most definitely flowing in a subliminally-manipulated-since-a-young-age kind of outward ripple...
It takes a while, but I finally reach shore in an almighty tidal wave of realisation.
And that’s why I hate, with a vitriolic fury, McDonalds. And Burger King. And Coke. And Pepsi. And IBM. And Microsoft. And Asda-Wallmart. And Corporate North America. And the Western World generally.
Death to the West.
I’m no bitter Jihadist, nor even mildly acclimatised to the woefully inadequate explanations of organised religion, for my thoughts on this evil empire are based solely on the blatant testicular vice-grip its advertisers keep locked into the population of the so called “Free World” by hungrily encouraging near-rabid levels of consumerism and record-numbers of house repossessions.
The credit system is a cyclical trap, gaining fuel from those it burns by making us feel we need to be hard-working consumers. A viciously rotating hell-fire incinerator first conceived in the twisted wet dream of some degenerate little Nazi. Step in line and wait your turn. Relax. It’s all ok… Then, without even the hint of a warning: WHAMMO! Like an unexpected right-hook straight from the 300 pound animal carcasses strapped to either side of Mike Tyson’s upper torso. You drop to the ground and die of what is later confirmed to be, at the conclusion of a suprisingly brief and definitive autopsy: "instantaneous explosion of the heart". They have you by the balls and you MUST conform. Go directly to jail. Do not pass go, do not collect £200. The advertising cartels have a monopoly on your soul.
The lover of Yoko explained it best when he said: “Our society is run by insane people for insane objectives. I think we're being run by maniacs for maniacal ends and I think I'm liable to be put away as insane for expressing that. That's what's insane about it”
Preach, Johnny Boy, preach!
Turn off the TV, for it is the governmentaly endorsed opiate of our times. Unhook this digital drug from your blackened veins. And remember what it is to think for yourself.
Peash
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