Thrust

Fat and chic, our nation quarrels with itself, discontent with the killing of a fluffy forest creature, the underdog or a rock star or the children who killed their father.

Like pigs to the slaughter, we devour the faux facts, pretending to care, pretending to be sated with the cirque du les miserables, pretending to be outraged about something or another while we lustfully devour every bit of it, gossip about it at work, protest with brightly coloured signs. The only thing that brings colour to our lives... We follow, single-file down the chutes the media constructs for us, boasting 32 ways to make him want you, 10 ways to loose that extra 20 pounds and the top 100 most attractive moviestars of our time, perhaps saddest of all is that we, these pigs, wish to do all these things. To be sexual, to be in shape, to be perfect, to own, to buy, to be needed, to have everything anyone has ever wanted--discontent to be merely who we are, to be happy with what we have, to love ourselves and those who surround us, despite their social standing. 

Mindless sheep that we are, capitalism is our God, no buddha, no vishnu, no allah. Glimmering "Sale!" tags and sparkling salesman and models who are far too thin to wear anything save napkins whirl and mezmerize us, forcing out our wallets with greedy, fat fingers digging for that which our God demands. Offerings of circular metal, rectangular plastic and paper are laid out, libations for an all-consuming God who will make us thinner, with whiter teeth, a smaller ass and gigantic tits.Yes, this is what we're told we want, what we're told we need.. and then are sent messages just the opposite. "It's ok to be yourself." If you're fat with acne and a nervous tic, it's not ok. It's ok if you're a method actor, not an actress. It's ok if you're elderly, not if you're under the age of 70. It's ok if you're a man, not if you're a woman. It's ok if you don't mind shopping in stores that charge twice as much for a pair of jeans than any other store. It's ok if you don't mind children, men and women staring and whispering to their friends that they wouldn't be caught dead in that outfit, body or hairdo. 

"Discontent!" squeal the few with but one extra brain cell that hasn't been botoxed, burboned or Pall Malled to death, twitching like an epilleptic. Through the contented mastication of the pigs at their troughs, the singular complaint is buried in name brands for low prices and protests about killing cows for their precious hides.

Designer apparel worth ten times its cost of construction to two words, a symbol or initials stitched on by a foreigner -whom we know only in the abstract, thanks to the 10 o'clock news- whose hands stiffen with each stitch and who goes home to feed a family of six on what we could earn letting out children seell lemondate on the corner of our content suburbanite communitites for only an hour. 

Ah but the lord promised "The meek shall inherit the earth." How could they hope to? Cutthroat politics, advertising, salesmanship... Go for the kill, hit their pocketbook. There is no place for a kind hearted creature here, ever pig for himself. Gore the neighbor with those ivory tusks of distrust, of adultery, coveting. Sin, Sin, Sin... welcome to hell, welcome to heaven. Welcome to the world as it exists today. Away from any original plan, coursing toward downfall, thrusting lewdly toward the ultimate destruction. Hedonistic eyes glow, ready for the next barrel of bullshit to be shoveled into the trough to be devoured like the rest, with unquestioning hunger. Lust for the extordinary... for the grotesque, for the bizzarre. Welcome to the carnival. 


The meek shall inherit nothing.