Blog of literary hijinks and the dudnering whirl of expatriotic vitriole.


People live to brand the ideas they trade, referring to them as their ideals, and also love the brands in and of themselves, and can not bear to part with them. They carry them on their necks and in their hearts, remember them with the fuzzy glow of childhood oatmeal morning, mom close by, slide them on their fingers and feet so that others will see and be forced to ignore them or to watch on the sly, forced to not want to watch. They purify themselves in the brands universal promise: an identity with a certain euphoric quality that diminishes that identity over time, requiring larger and larger does for the user to perpetuate his euphoria. Each stage leads to a higher communion with the symbol of freedom. When you open the box and the inside shimmers from the glare of the new packaging, an image of the new you transmigrated; the slightly toxic, plastic smell of ownership like paint drying on a fence surrounding your new house in the afternoon breeze. The thrill of it comes rushing at the senses like a carved out vision of heaven. Everyone knows and sings along. People of the factory need a brand like a child needs a name. That factory is far away and its service manuals are written in a language whose symbols have never been deciphered. A word will suffice. Wavy works, and so does geometric. The brand is the replacement for all those euphoric feelings of wholeness, a genetic inheritance from the troglodytes, in having made something yourself. It is as much a part of your ontology as say, a sibling. The brand is who you are, emerging from a single god-like source, ultimately, speaking for you even before you speak, even if you change your mind later, it will recommend a place for you in the land of perfect health, perfect wisdom, and total freedom.


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