Comrade X takes on health care

Recently Comrade Y attempted to describe an encounter with her Capitalist Managed Health Care Organization, but unfortunately was too traumatized by the encounter to be able to describe it accurately (she will, I am told, be describing this encounter in the near future -- stay tuned to this site for the excruciatingly horrifying details). She recovers, I am happy to say, in her tiny overpriced and overpopulated apartment, meditating and medicating in order to become, once again, a fully functional revolutionary warrior. HOWEVER: the medications given her are designed NOT to enhance her revolutionary potential, but to increase her CAPITALISTIC value (I will soon be posting an explanation of how this works from Comrade Marx -- WE NEED THEORY IN ORDER TO PREVAIL!). Comrade X himself recently experienced such an episode, and will describe it while Comrade Y continue to recover. To wit:

Comrade X felt a strange lump, during an exploratory episode, on his left teste. Refusing to panic, as our Capitalist Overlords would have us do in order to spend our last imagined remaining moments on earth buying ALL WE CAN POSSIBLY BUY with what little money we have managed to hide away from the grasping fingers of the fascist IRS and other assorted Ideological State Apparati (such as the State Liquor Taxation Board, the State Gambling Commission, FICA [whatever the fuck THAT is], the State Brothel and Assorted Sundry Sumptuary Law and Taxation Enforcement Organizations), Comrade X made a leisurely appointment with his Primary Care Physician in his bureaucratic Health Denial Organization, Kaiser. Going in with a light heart, and a hearty smile, like some narrator from an Edgar Allan Poe story, impervious to intentional intimations of Worst Case Scenario, Comrade X was treated to a groping by his PCP, who entered the room QUITE QUICKLY after the departure of the nurse, and who turned out to be a member of the opposite gender (her name intimated otherwise!), which he did not expect, and whom he had to confront with his drawers halfway down his legs and all his junk on full display, like some sort of stunned male prostitute caught in the act (by who-knows-who) of making preparations for the disgusting and unenviable job of pleasuring the unpleasurable areas of the dried-up and very, very old (not to mention angry), during which he was forced to point out the lump in question as his PCP could not find it, even after a full five minutes of what in other circumstances might be called "fondling," and would be followed by a rather hefty unofficial bill, followed by a ball-slathering session of a cold lubricant and an even colder "wand" which was connected to some ultrasound device (Comrade X was struck by the irony of having the same device used to both detect life in the womb of a woman and death in the scrotum of a man, upon which he remarked to the humorless Teste-Slathering and Ball-Stroking Technician in charge of showing him the inner workings of his previously unworried-about sack), after which Comrade X was entreated to pull up his pants and leave the room and go home to await the results of the "exploration."

Well, Comrade X does not like to wait, or to be given directives to wait, so the following exchange took place:

"Why can't you just tell me what you see?"
"I'm just the technician -- we need a specialist to read the results."
"So some fuck who didn't even LOOK at my balls is going to look at this sketchy black-and-white picture of whatever the fuck and tell me what he (or she) sees?"
"That's correct, yes."
"Well, don't you think THEY should have been rubbing that cold-ass glop over my balls since they're the ones who have to figure out what's wrong with them?"
"No, they don't do that."
"So they leave it to you?"
"Yes."
"And what training do you have? Were you in a sorority?"
"No, but I went to college."
"College? Really? What was your major? Sack Stroking? Ball Examination? Nut Jobbing?"
"Sir, I understand that ... "
" No you fucking don't! What if they have to cut my balls off? What then? You think I WANT that to happen?"
"Sir, if there's an issue, the doctors ... "
"Wait, what? So some fuck in the radiology lab or wherever reads this piece of shit fuzzy photo and sends to to a doctor and then THEY make a decision as to whether or not to cut my balls off? Based off THIS shit?"
"Sir, I assure you ... "
"No, I assure YOU that I AM NOT going to sit around waiting for fifty different people to look at the insides of my sack before castrating me! Tell me what you see!"
"I don't really know ... "
"Then why the FUCK are you feeling me up and taking these pictures? You have a website you make money off of? You make Scrote-Totes outta people's cut-off and dried-up nutsacks? Little change purses? You got a business, huh?! HUH?! What the capitalist fucking shit is going on here?!"
"Sir, I understand that you're upset ... "
"DAMN STRAIGHT I'M UPSET!"
" ... but there's nothing I can tell you ... "
"THEN WHY AM I HERE?!"
"Because it's a process which ... "
"I CAN FEEL MYSELF UP, THANK YOU VERY MUCH! What the FUCK is going on in my SACK?"
"The doctor will get back to you with the results within ten to fifteen days."
"TEN TO FIFTEEN DAYS!? I have to live with some fucking nut tumor for that long until I hear from a DOCTOR? What the FUCK?!"
"Sir, I WILL call security if ... "
"Then call 'em! I don't give a shit! I'm outraged! What kind of chop shop are you running here? Are you going to harvest my organs, too? What is this shit?!"

And so it continued until Comrade X was unceremoniously taken out of the examination room and back to his doctor, who, while listening to him voice his VERY LEGITIMATE complaints, prescribed the following medications to calm him and prepare him for whatever news lay ahead:

Prozac, Lexapro, Paxil, Xanax, Valium, Quaalude, Lorazapam, Klonopin, Pulmicort, Pulmozyne, Protopam, Provigil, Activase, Astilin, Vagistat-1, V-cilin K, Preparation H, Vermox, Viagra, Vivactil, Yodoxin, Bactrin, Benadryl, Buspar, Bleph-10, Memorase, Memorease, Penisol, Anusol, Rectosal, Colonopin, Sphinctosil, Turdalax, Spermicide, Testicate-2, Rheostat, Morphine, liquid cocaine, pharmaceutical heroin, medical marijuana, Vagilame, Botox, Buttox, Klor-con, K-tab, glue, Gleevec, Gastrocil, Beano, Geocillin, Mazdacillin, Biocillin, Carpocillin, Harpocillin, Grouchocillin, Zeppocine-5, Gummocide, Chicolate, Cilocillin, Cilocillin-C, Januvia, Jolivette, Quinaglute, Quixin, Britospear, Brangelicone, Crapulate, Doodoocine, Scatoscam, Urinol, Urinate, Peppermint tea.

All of which came with a one dollar co-pay. But still.

Comrade X will relay the results as soon as he has them. But fear not! THE REVOLUTION WILL CONTINUE! Even if I have to be the fucking dead-ass martyr for it ...

KAISERFUCKMEPERMANTENTALY.

Dear X,

KAISER Wilhelm ll king of Prussia had Erb's Palsy you know, and they couldn't even cure him.

First of all, WHY associate a medical conglomerate with emperors of a unified Pre- World War 1 Germany ?

Aww , look,the logo even has a little crown, how cute.

Okay, so after having world class medical care my whole life, suddenly I have been thrust into the lowest of the low. The doctors are kind but really weird and totally INCOMPETENT. My GP is basically a bus driver, and my other doctor is basically a lunch lady. I've gone three times and so far I have had to diagnose and write the scrip myself . "Yeah, give me 50 mill. a day on that one"

Hey, maybe I could be a doctor ! I've got a BFA !

DR: (Mumbling to herself while staring at her computer) "...hmmm doesn't look like they have a category for you on here.

Y: Nice !

Dr: Do you think we should order a ___________ ?

Y :Why are you asking ME ? DO I look like I am wearing a lab coat, motherfucker?"

Y: " So, okay,who is the best radiologist here ?"

Dr.: Oh, Haha , chuckle , we don't really have that sort of thing here.We just have, you know , people.

Y: .. (confused) Ummm... who is the best surgeon here?

Dr. : Oh, I don't know. There aren't many that do that sort of thing.

Y: Wait, WHAT ?!I don't know about you bitch, but I'm trying to "THRIVE" here.

It all just reminds me of that movie "Coma" from the 70's. I just know I'll end up on a cold slab getting my organs harvested by a Pakistani tech support guy from AT&T.

What I want to tell you,Dear X , is that large corporations couldn't possibly care about your organs and tender body parts like your testicles.
They just want to take your money so they can make those shiny awesome commercials and employ that Allison Janney lady from "The West Wing", for the voiceovers forever. You know she is Kaiser Wilhiem's great great great grand niece, don't you ?

Hey,don't blame the Doctors. Humans are groooooss,

and who wants to be faced with the naked ?

But can we not be made to be felt like a cow in a stampede , please?

Thrive , my ass.

-y

The Ex-Mrs. Comrade X does her best to undermine our undermining of capitalism

So:

On a recent reconnaissance trip to our local grocery outlet (inspired by the many intrepid exploratory excursions recently embarked upon by Comrade Y, who otherwise is terrified of brightly-lit consumerist emporiums, made so, I imagine [though I have never asked], by her many forced encounters with said emporiums as a child -- now trace memories of looming aisles of garishly-colored and highly-illuminated boxes of products with the most frightening imagery imaginable [Frankenberry? Count Chocula? Really? To a two-year-old? Too early to face the Death Drive! Poor Comrade Y!] come back to haunt her in her rare moments of sleep, which she normally avoids by staying awake late into the night, lucubrating upon the various and sundry methods of both a.) destroying capitalism and b.) exacting vengeance for a childhood tampered with by consumerist terror), Comrade X ran in to the Ex-Mrs. Comrade X, who was purchasing the above product. Upon seeing her pick up numerous tubs of said product (Comrade X immediately recalled her absolute and unwavering addiction to Mountain Dew [originally a heinous and unnatural drug manufactured by the Army in 1954 to kill Koreans and Southerners (who overwhelmingly showed a marked resistance to its more negative side effects), but due to the mixed results of testing upon Army "volunteers," the tests were abandoned, the program shut down, and Mountain Dew turned into a consumer product, a percentage of the proceeds of which are still funneled into government coffers, distributed equally between the Army and the Department of Transportation (for reasons unknown -- so far)], cans of which would be stacked daily in her kitchen, usually 12-24 per day -- in fact once, when talking to the poor unfortunate children of the ex-Mrs. Comrade X, Comrade X learned that on a recent recycling trip, 320 cans of Mountain Dew were logged by a grocery clerk, representing two months of consumption of said product), Comrade X, unseen by the fixated and glassy-eyed ex-Mrs. Comrade X, remarked, while standing a few feet behind her, mindful of her tendency to whirl around suddenly when startled with fists protruding and often not empty fists (Comrade X was sent to the hospital [more later on the fucking joke of a health plan that Comrade X has, and the utter humiliation and degradation he undergoes EVERY VISIT when trying to acquire actual health care from a facility which has its own plan, its own doctors, its own machines, etc., and yet, somehow, miraculously and incomprehensibly, approves no procedures] more than once with wounds to the hands and torso [and once the face] by sharp objects wielded by said assailant -- though small, the ex-Mrs. Comrade X is both strong and unrelenting; in fact, one time she kicked Comrade X in the liver, causing a puncture in said organ with resulting leakage of bodily fluids, and when asked what prompted her to do so, remarked in a casual tone, "You were open!" It was at this point that Comrade X realized that all hope for THAT union was lost), "You eat that shit?"
"What the fuck" she literally screamed while whirling (luckily, empty-handed, though still very dangerous) towards me.
"That shit. 'Kozy Shack.' Why the fuck do they call it that? You can't live in it. It doesn't offer shelter. Or warmth. It's not a blanket. And anyway, 'shack' is pejorative, so really they're saying 'Comfortable Hillbilly Home,' and ... "
"What the fuck are you doing here?!"
"I'm trying to destroy ... "
"Get out of my aisle!"
"Oh, I'm sorry, I wasn't aware you OWNED this aisle."
"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY AISLE!"
"Umm ... and ... whats with the '0 trans fat' thing? No one knows what ... "
"I do."
"You didn't even let me ... "
"I know what you're going to say. I TOLD you all about this. MANY TIMES!"
"Yeah, but ... "
"And you NEVER, EVER listened. You never remember shit! You have the worst ... "
"Now hold on ... "
" ... memory in the history ... "
"Look, I'm just trying to do reconnaissance here ... and why do they always use a 'k' instead of a 'c' to make something sound cute and ... "
" ... OF THE FUCKING WORLD!"
Now, at this point, Comrade X saw no further gain to be had from this conversation (in fact, he saw no gain to begin with), so he (well, 'I' -- I'm not quite sure why I write all this in the third person, if you really want to know the truth) began to walk away, foolishly turning his back on the ex-Mrs. Comrade X, who, with her usual skill in locating vital organs in the human body and attacking them mercilessly, threw a tub of the tapioca-flavored (I wonder why she didn't throw chocolate? I think she likes that flavor more and so didn't want to waste it) "Kozy Shack" (which, by the way, claims to be "all natural," but really, pudding isn't natural -- it doesn't occur in nature!) at Comrade X's right kidney, causing a kind of rush of some chemical or other in his body (I'm sure due to internal hemorrhaging) which caused him to drop to one knee (bruising it severely), while the ex-Mrs. Comrade X came up behind him and brained him with yet ANOTHER tub of tapioca-flavored Kozy Shack, rendering Comrade X both sticky and unsettled.
At which point, Comrade X remembers hearing, before losing consciousness entirely (I'm not sure, but I think I was being choked, as well), the oft-heard command of "Martha, clean up on aisle seven. Bring a mop," which is really the last thing anyone wants to hear before falling prostrate, covered in Kozy Shack tapioca pudding, before the triumphing form of your ex-wife doing a little dance (as I recall) to celebrate what I'm sure she considered to be some kind of victory over Your Humble Narrator.

And yet: the fight against capitalism goes on. The fact that out there, somewhere, is the highly dangerous and severely unstable ex-Mrs. Comrade X does not in any way deter Your Humble Fighter for the Cause, as he knows that, with certain precautions taken, he can avoid such an incident in the future. And he'll have to -- he won't survive another.

But if you do see her, a warning would be appreciated. Oh, and: FUCK KOZY SHACK!

Unswallowables-- the story of my evening

I went to the Ice skating rink, I mean grocery store, to do research on the present state of rampant capitalism ,but I was also hungry ... and I came upon this lovely item.

I purchased it to perform an in depth examination, and study the list of ingredients (Modified vegetable gum ? Pea protein ?) but then, THEN I got really hungry and confused and accidentally tried to eat it!

Lets look at what the package says:

1. Think green, Eat green ? BULLSHIT.
2. Sante Fe good stuff --my balls?
3. Sauced and ready to go? Yeah, I'm sure !

Honestly ,I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I JUST TRIED TO EAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I heated up these little packages of balls in their own separate juicy plastic sacks?... and

now I think I know what they meant by Soylent Green. Seriously, I think I just ate someone's grandpa's testicles.

I swallowed (once) and now I feel dirty, like Captain Pollard on the whale ship Essex.

Lunch with me !

Comrade X rages drunkenly

Okay, Comrade X is drunk and pissed. You have been warned! First of all, it took three tries to upload this photo of this STUPID FUCKING IDIOTIC PRODUCT. Technology is in the hands of capitalist scum! We need it, we want it, we use it to undermine the very thing that allows us to undermine it. (Comrade X has the television playing in the background as he writes this. FUCKING HYPOCRITICAL! Crisis of conscience!) It's crazy! Subversion is allowed by the prevailing power network in order to diffuse and expend that excess negative energy. Negative energy they can't stand! So they give us these little pockets of subversion, all the while knowing that it works to their advantage, knowing that we can't do anything about their FUCKING OPPRESSIVE OMNIPRESENT CAPITALIST STRATEGIES that keep us all TRAPPED and SUBSERVIENT to their fucking monetary WHIMS! Aaaaarggh!!!!!

COMRADE X IS PISSED!!!!!!!!!

Okay, where was I? Oh, product analysis:

1. If you're a fat fuck, eating "Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Sundae" is NOT a wise dietary decision! Fucking forget about whether or not it's from "Smart Ones," whoever the fuck THEY are. How can it possibly be more than empty calories and awful-tasting cardboardy crap that passes for food? Do you think nature intended for us to eat FUCKING COOKIE DOUGH!? FUCK NO!!!!! Nature intended for us to eat grass and dirt and fruit and nuts or whatever the fuck, and this, this is just an ABOMINATION created by some stupid corporation who cares NOTHING about your health or your weight or your self-image (which they in part have helped to create in order to sell their FUCKING MISERABLE LYING PIECE OF SHIT DESTRUCTIVE PRODUCT), a corporation who intentionally works to MAKE YOU FATTER so you will buy more of their "cookie dough" shit to make you think you're losing weight when in fact you can't help but gain it which serves their purpose admirably. They make you think you have a problem, then give you a solution to that problem which actually serves to create the "problem" it is ostensibly trying to cure; worse, and then you feel even MORE desperate to cure it, which means buying more of their product, which means getting fatter, which means ... you get the idea. UNLESS YOU'RE A FUCKING IDIOT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AND I HATE FUCKING IDIOTS!


Okay, so: umm, here's the deal. Back to product analysis. Well, I think I said all I need to say about that. If you want to lose weight, don't eat anything that sounds like it will make you gain weight. That's just stupid. Try exercise.

Second: who the fuck is that guy scratching his ass in the background? Not only are the products heinous, but the actual late-night consumers ARE, ON THEIR OWN, CRAZY FUCKING WEIRD! What's with these baggy-assed pants scratch-your-hole-in-public freak-baits who think that it's COMPLETELY ACCEPTABLE to grope your nasty areas in public? WHAT THE FUCK?! Oh, and:

Third: who's the freakbait peeking around the aisle to make sure Yours Truly isn't taking pictures of their products to highlight in their blog, for the sake of EXPOSING CAPITALIST CRIMES?! Some fucking capitalist toady, that's who! Well, our loyal readers will be glad to know that the following exchange took place:

Toady: What are you doing?
Us: Destroying capitalism, duh!
Toady: Well, we don't allow pictures in our store.
Us: What? You have pictures ALL OVER THE PLACE!
Toady: Well, yes, but those are advertisements.
Us: Exactly my point!
Toady: Umm, sir, I don't see how ...
Us: You're just a fucking cog in the corporate wheel! You will be ground down and cast off! Join our ...
Toady: Sir: we don't allow ...
Us: What? YOU don't allow? Or your corporate overlords don't allow?
Toady: (Confused.) Excuse me?
Us: WHAT DON'T YOU ALLOW? (Our voice was raised and perhaps our fists were, too.)
Toady: Please, sir, I'm only doing my ...
Us: Don't say "job." DON'T SAY IT!
Toady: But ...
Us: Because that's EXACTLY what they want you to say, like your "job" is what defines you and ...
Toady: Please, sir, don't make me call security ...
Us: WHAT THE FUCK?! This is SAFEWAY, dick! There's no fucking "security"! Free your FUCKING MIND!
Toady: Sir, I assure you, there is a man we employ who will take you out of ...
Us: What? Out of your capitalistic predetermined boundaries? I doubt it! All they'll do is, is take us out of the FUCKING STORE, but what will YOU do to fight the CAPITALIST BULLSHIT that goes on here? Oppressing and repressing and depressing and ...
Toady: Martha, I need Security in Aisle 7 ...
Us: OH, yeah, call "Martha," whoever the fuck SHE is, and try to get my ass kicked out of ...
Toady: Sir, security has been called, and I really don't ...
Us: You wanna fuck with me, asshole? (Striking kung fu-ish pose.)
Toady: Uhh ...
Us: Just cause I wanna take a picture of a Hot Pocket?
Toady: Uh, sir, it was actually a Smart Ones ...
Us: FUCK IT, ASSHOLE! It's all the same! Hot Pockets, Smart Ones, its all bullshit! Don't you SEE?! (Quoting lines from a film that has nothing to do with the current situation:) "I fucks you up, Lebowski! I fucks you up the ass!"
Toady: Uhh, sir, I really don't ...
Us: "I fucks you up! I fucks you up!"
Toady: Umm, perhaps we could just ... you know ... forget about this ...
Us: (Thinking.) In what way?
Toady: You know, you could maybe just leave the store ...
Us: I will never leave until the rights of workers have been acknowledged and their power restored and ...
[At this juncture the aforementioned "security" shows up and there is a very large amount of indiscriminate dialogue and conflict and whatnot that ends with:]
Us: Fascists!
Them: And stay out, you fucking hippie!
Us: I'M NOT A FUCKING HIPPIE, GODDAMMIT!
Them: Then why are you all going all granola about the fucking shit we got in ...
Us: Because you suck capitalist cock, you motherfucking cocksucker faggot mother fucker ...
[At this point, truncheons are displayed and Your Humble Correspondent is not only threatened with a beating, but a beating is delivered via the conduits of Capitalist Hegemony, and in the aftermath, there is this short dialogue:]
Us: You'll be hearing from my lawyers, you fucking fascists!
Them: Yeah, whatever. Just stay outta our store, hippie!

HIPPIE! Can I be FURTHER from a hippie? I ask you!? Weigh in, Comrades!

Wisps-"On the go" toothbrushes

FIRST check this out and then get back to us.

http://www.colgatewisp.com/wisp/HomePage?cid=ppc_gg_nb_stan_Wisp_Phrase_Wisp

When you are in DA CLUB and you are about to GET IT ON in front of everyone, make sure you brush your teeth !

"Be prepared, don't be without,and don't get caught without--I'll be right back"

Forget about condom's ! If you brush your teeth with these--with freshening bead--you are all set. No STD's for you !

Don't forget to buy the 16 pack... because you never ever go home ? Because you just hop from club to random hot guys house back to da club ?

OR is it because you are OUT ALL DAY WORKING your ass off in order to buy useless pieces of plastic and therefore you can NEVER make it home to brush your teeth ?

I'm so confused.

What is this place?

Where are we?

What is happening ?

Can I go home now and brush my teeth ?

Capitalism: making suicide easy for all of us

Yes, my Comrades, if you have ever had any doubt that capitalism spits in your face and pisses on your grave after killing you BECAUSE IT CAN and doesn't care about you AT ALL, here is a product that doesn't even TRY to hide its contempt: Helping Hand straight razors. Because if you need a helping hand killing yourself, HERE is the product for you! Instructions for use:

1. Become utterly disenfranchised with your own life due to the relentless grinding misery of NEVER-ENDING CONSUMPTION and the inescapable need to BUY SHIT YOU NEITHER WANT NOR NEED ALL THE TIME.

2. Decide life is no longer worth living due to the need to deal with fucking bureaucrats and their toadies who are trained to say NO to you and to wear you down until you give up in utter disgust while they laugh, LAUGH at your expense and smoke cigars they light with YOUR MONEY while figuring out ways to fuck over your children and children's children until the END OF FUCKING TIME or at least until every single business, public utility, and government in the world, every fucked-up mud-caked shithole corner of it, even the ones they hate and exploit mercilessly and use for their own demonic amusement (building their McMansions on the mass graves of dead workers), is united in one unassailable conquering oppressive looming corporate entity ("BUY OUR SHIT NOW" SAYS LIDLESS EYE ENTERPRISES, INC.!).

3. Buy Helping Hand straight razors (single sided because you only need one side to die. Two sides are for incompetent losers. But since even suicides think along CostCo lines these days, you get TWO packs of FIVE razors, giving you a.) the ability to fuck up 9 times before getting it right, and/or b.) leaving, if you are smart enough and sober enough to do it right the first time [or close to the first time], MORE razors left for your descendants and others you leave behind so they can enjoy the benefits of oblivion. OR: they can do what consumers normally do [to the never-ending amusement of the asslicking scum who sit in judgment of our spending sins and find us wanting, wanting, ever wanting]: throw away the rest and BUY THEIR OWN PACK and kill themselves with THOSE!).

4. Get drunk. Or not. Write suicide note. Or not. Who cares -- they take all your money, anyway.

5. KILL SELF and find release from the HELL of capitalism.

Which of course is the dilemma: give in and do what they WANT you to do, kill yourself so they can laugh at you, or opt out of their soul-destroying system by killing yourself, and then they laugh at you for being so stupid as to think you can ever escape the Long Arm of the ALFUCKING Mighty Dollar.

What will you do?

THERE IS NO ESCAPE!

But that doesn't mean we should lie down and give up the fight and be trampled and mocked, O My Comrades!

Any'tizers

Any'tizers?

I think I just lost the will to live. They might be trying to kill us. They might be succeeding.

It's not even funny.

This is how it goes:

The children are hungry. One must go out and find them food.

One enters ghastly lit grocery store which is sort of like a hockey rink filled with brightly colored packages .

One must take certain anti- anxiety drugs in order to pass over the threshold.

One convinces oneself one is doing "Research" in order to shop.

One was joking before, but suddenly realizes the extent of the horror, while wandering the aisles in a daze.

One spots Any'tizers.

3rd world countries: PLEASE SEND HELP. It's a fucking emergency. You might not have a lot of money or whatever but... at least you don't have Any'tizers.

Help.

The environment is a capitalist ploy

Comrade Y has oh-so-eloquently pointed out the absurdity of taking an already existing food source and turning it into a product by preying on the laziness and lassitude of the modern-day bourgeois consumer who is too stupid to realize that said product is merely a degradation of an already-existing entity. They do this, of course, by changing it in an infinitesimally small way, such as taking a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich, the simplest of assembled food products, and crimping the crust and making it circular and adding MORE preservatives and selling it at an exorbitant mark-up to unwary and idiotic consumers. Who would buy this product? And why? It seems more like a product -- or a weapon -- aimed at the extremely poor working class, something they can leave for their latch-key children to eat while they are working their 16-hour double-job shifts so their children can develop cancer and thus reduce the workforce and so lower wages as the number of workers of the slightly better off proletariat flood into the areas normally occupied by the extremely lower-class working poor, thus further vitiating the power of the worker. Fucking capitalists! The leading cause of death of the working poor and the really, really poor (working or not). But I have just discovered another ploy to keep the proletariat trogloditic and unhappy: the environment.

Consider: Adams' Creamy Salted Peanut Butter (as well as the other types of Adams' peanut butter) is sponsoring a contest: to wit: "Tell us how you are helping the environment and you could win a trip to Yosemite worth $4,000."

Well, first of all:
1. Bullshit. They, being capitalist pigs, could care less about the environment, and eating corporate-grown peanut products hardly helps the environment as it supports the soil-destroying cattle farm industry, which creates so much manure that the land these farms sit on will remain sterile for the next 10,000,000 years due to the accumulated nitrates. Not to mention the increased cancer rate of those living around such farms and eating food grown in soil contaminated with leached nitrates, which, it is well known, can seep hundreds of miles through water tables.

2. There is no "worth" to this "trip." Worth is a by-product of capitalist ideology: nothing is "worth" anything. The only worth is the worth the laborer instills in his product -- but due to the massive amount of alienation of labor involved in all the various processes involved in such a "vacation," there can be no worth involved. Instead of "worth," what they mean is "cost," and "cost" cannot be determined by some arbitrary bean-counting fuckwit working for his corporate overlords. There is no one "cost," but various "costs" depending on the person taking the "trip." Who is fooled by this? FOOLS and DUPES are fooled by this! For the corporation, there is no cost, as they have reciprocal agreements with various high-priced vendors in the Yosemite "tourist memory enhancement" area.

And so I, Comrade X, will submit the following essay to undermine the process of the capitalist scumbags who run this "contest," which is designed to do only one thing: sell fucking PEANUT BUTTER!

The essay:

Dear Pieces of Capitalist Shit:

I would like to describe the ways in which I am helping the environment in order to win the fabulous and highly-valued -- $4,000! A king's ransom! -- trip to Yosemite, the details of which remain obscure, of course, and even though I do not know if this means I will be staying in deluxe accomodations and viewing the Grand Canyon and assorted not-yet-extinct beasts through a telescope from my penthouse suite while sipping slushy frozen drinks fit only for high school girls and Tahitian resorts or if I will be staying in a pup tent with a rancid unwashed drug-addled rapist hippie "guide" for any number of days and nights, starving and hysterical in the depths of the valleys of the rugged wilderness of the Park, where many "tourists" die each year as they foolishly believe that they can merely walk into the woods and survive, not realizing they need things like, oh, say, SURVIVAL SKILLS, and so take with them a plastic bottle of Evian (which they throw away into a convenient patch of foliage when they are through with it) and a Power Bar, Oreos-n-Cream flavor, and then realize they don't know where the fuck they are and so walk in circles wondering why the fuck they didn't take their Cadillac SUV into the wilderness with them, and why their iPhone GPS device and Google Maps feature doesn't work, and then die, their corpses picked clean by birds of prey, their eyes plucked out by vultures and their flesh torn and rent and consumed by foxes and wolves and badgers -- fucking badgers! -- in the resplendent postcard-knowledge wilderness of their exotic and unprecedented vacation, never before having left the hideous suburban nightmare of sterile marriages, hopelessly fucked-up progeny, Schools of Torture and Humiliation and Indoctrination, and the endless rigid concrete conformity of ideological oppression and adherence that molds this putative utopia into a shape far more reminiscent of the nine levels of hell, and ...

I'm sorry, I seem to have lost my thread. But, in a nutshell, O Adams' Peanut Butter Conglomerate, the way I help the wilderness is this: I look up extinct species on Wikipedia for my children's middle-school science essays and laugh at how stupid they were not to have invented something smart, like Adams' Salted Unstirred Creamy Peanut Butter, to ensure their own survival in the midst of a natural environment which we have, oh so smugly and intelligently, removed ourselves from so that we are not subject to the various terrors and dangers of it. Instead, we sit in our homes, dully staring at our media soma, our televisual food product, our nourishment, pretending that we, somehow, are unique, and not headed for extinction. But BEWARE, O capitalist fear-mongers: YOU TOO WILL FALL!

SO FUCK YOU!

In conclusion, I would like to thank you for this opportunity to join your contest, and look forward to hearing that I have won.

Sincerely,

Comrade X


And that, dear readers, is my essay on How I Help the Environment. I hope I win. It would be cool to go to Yosemite. Of course, I will be sure to steal the bathrobe from my four-star accomodation.

Uncrustables

UNCRUSTABLES . Frozen peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with the crusts cut off.

You know you’ve seen them in the frozen food aisles, and then you shielded your eyes, right?

Because if you looked at them too long the world might end?

The recipe for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich is really complicated,so it is totally understandable that you might save some time and go out and get some of these.

Umm…by the way….WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? ARE YOU INSANE ? YOUR POOR CHILD ! You can't stay home for one second and drag a knife across a piece of white bread for them?

UNCRUSTABLES? Really ? Really? Smuck-you , you mother fuckers.

(What’s next--Crustables for healthy gums?)

And again with the "Comic Sans MS" bubbly typeface ?

Are we raising children who can only read if the letters look like marshmallows?

Greetings, Comrades: a belated introduction

In a recent late-night meeting at our local cell of the International Comintern (do NOT believe the capitalist propaganda that thinks the Comintern disbanded -- I assure you it is alive and well and existing solely for your education and salvation from the scorpion clutch of omnipresent capitalism), it was decided that in order to save you, Comrades, we should at least put a face on what could seem, in this impersonal world of vapid, immediate, overwhelming, constant, consumer-centered communication, yet another impersonal attempt to SELL products by DISGUISING advertisements for them as actual CRITIQUES of the ideological underpinnings of the language associated with them. No! We assure you this IS NOT SO! We of Comintern Cell Local #234 labor humbly for the destruction of capitalism, ceaselessly, for the release of our working comrades throughout the greater Sioux City metropolitan area (we were laboring on behalf of our comrades in the surrounding districts of Woodbury County, as well, but found the commuting too difficult, what with gas prices being what they are and the notorious unreliability of our 1972 Buick Skylark, a sleek and otherwise very manageable vehicle despite the difficulty of manipulating the non-powered steering and a little trouble with the local Department of Motor Vehicles who would not pass us due to "emissions problems" -- yet another way in which we suffer under the cold and cruel hands of faceless, unaccountable bureaucratic power, O My Comrades!), and are attempting, by using the tools of our oppressors (no, we do not have a Twitter feed yet, but we are working on it), to labor on behalf of ALL the residents of the United States of Capitalism!

But as I said, let me introduce us: we are Comrade X and Comrade Y (for obvious reasons, it would be foolish to use our real names of Lucinda Lipshitz and Dumasky Yablinsky, as this would undoubtedly undermine our covert attempts to destroy the oppressive ideology of the bourgeois. However, if you would like to communicate privately with us [say, to offer donations to the cause in the form of cashier's checks or register with us and receive a free Welcome to the Revolution Kit, complete with secret decoder ring (no, I am not kidding), a black-light poster of V. I. Lenin (very cool and a great conversation piece for parties and possible recruitment), and a poster of a stylized muscular worker in the 1930s Soviet Realist style with the motto "Through Strength and Hammers And Such We Will Smash Our Way to Victory"], do send mail to our home address, 2329 Tourquoise Jewelry Way #109 and 1/2, Sioux City, IA, 51101, or call us on our secure line, 712-555-1913). We attended the Post-Industrial Anti-Capitalist Worker Glorification College and School of Dentistry in Gdansk (1967-1971), graduating with Honors in the fields of Agrarian Unrest with a minor in Ideological Infiltration (Comrade Y also received a minor in Threshing and Combine Technology, very helpful when the next Five-Year Plan is put into effect) and winning the following prestigious awards along the way: Freshman Ferreter Award (for discovering non-adherents to the Party and denouncing them, a very nice medal with a stylized rat gnawing the body of a shrieking half-eaten banker containing much filigree and a little red ribbon protruding from the bottom), won by Comrade X; Spontaneous Exaggerated Propagandistic Blurtings Award, Comrade Y, for screaming party slogans in her Bread Line Management course during the mid-term (thus confusing her classmates and giving her the highest score on the test); and, won by both in the same month of their senior year, the Medal for Distinguished Service to the International Cause of Doing What Needs to be Done (the college's top honor) for staging a burning of all copies of the game Monopoly (Russian edition, of course) that could be found in the homes of their friends and family.

We have been quite busy since college in pursuing our appointed task, and would love to tell you more about our accomplishments. Please read our blog and stay tuned for further news and continue your education and outrage.

Ranters of the World, Unite!

It's Crantastic !

CRANTASTIC! CRANERGY!;

Ocean Spray makes a splash with partnering, new products, fresh flavors and...

(Ocean Spray Cranberries Inc has profited considerably from a partnership with Pepsi-Cola Co)

Okay, here we have a product ostensibly made out of Cranberries, except it's really exciting and fantastic! Actually,It's Crantastic .....

Did you know that cranberries are the fucking tartest thing on earth and in order to make them palatable one must add one pound of sugar PER berry.

"Here!!!! Have this juice!!!! Lets be really full of energy!!!! Drink it!!!! Guess what will happen ? Your awful terrible life will suddenly become fabulous!"

On The Go medicines

“Benadryl Children's Perfect Measure Pre-Filled Single Use Antihistamine Spoons, Cherry Flavored Liquid, 10-Count

Alka-seltzer FAST Multi-symptom Cold Relief in a Fizz-Free, Taste-Free Formula

Good news, now you don't have to lug around giant bottles of medicine !!

WHAT ? Why do you need a single serving of medicine ? WHEN YOU ARE OUTSIDE IN THE WORLD ?

A) If your child is sick, then keep them home. What is so important? If you have heartburn, how about you stop constantly eating old grease.

B) If you are a child and you cant buy medicine what difference does it make that the packaging is "cute"?

C) Does it have to have that ugly bubble type in bright colors ? Fuck you.

d) Do we ALL have to be medicated at all times ?Even the babies ,dear lord? THE BABIES?

E) Cant you just take the bottle and a spoon with you, if you must?

F) Plus,tough it out, you whiny sacks of shit !

Nuts

This item caught my eye as it sat stacked in an endcap at my local Conglomerate Food Emporium:

1. Do peanuts taste so disgusting that you have to add a truly horrendous combination of flavors -- sour cream and cheddar (cheddar what? Cheese? You need to specify! "Cheddar" itself isn't a flavor, I don't think. You can't make cheddar cola, for instance. It's a TYPE of cheese) -- to make them palatable? And if so, WHY EAT THEM?! Why try to make them taste like Doritos?

2. Which is the natural and which the artificial flavor?

3. Why are the peanuts flying at you? Or are they exploding (with taste, presumably?)? If you add these two flavors, do peanuts become explosive? Or is it due to the mix of natural and artificial flavors? Do they explode out of the can? Will they all roll under the refridgerator? Will you be able to eat ANY of them?

4. "Have nuts? Have a party!" How exactly are we to take this motto? If I have testes I should have a party because why? Or if I have nuts already I should have a party? In which case, what do I need these for?

5. 0 grams trans fat per serving. Does anyone who would buy this product really even know what that means? And why per serving? Wouldn't all the servings combined still add up to zero? Why not 0 grams per can? Or just 0 grams? Why specify "per serving"?

The first item in our list of consumer crimes

Consider: this is the toilet paper I buy. I recognize it in the store by its purple label, and not much else. I have no idea why I started buying it, but me being me, once I started using it (for whatever reason), I could not stop. I have to keep coming back to it, again and again and again. Is it the best toilet paper on the market? Who knows. How would one judge something like that? Is it the cheapest? No (this is a consideration of the capitalist, the filthy bourgeois!). And is this not the Prime Sin of Consumerism? Brand loyalty? But then I LOOKED at it. And I became confused. And so I ask you to consider it with me:

1. The math. 12 double rolls DOES NOT equal 24 single rolls! Who would read that and think they were actually getting a bargain? 12 rolls is 12 rolls! NO ONE is going to buy these 12 rolls, unwrap them from their spool, peel them apart, and make 24 rolls! NO! They're going to do what everyone does: use the 12 rolls and then buy 12 more. What the fuck?! Who thought THAT up? (But of course this begs the question of waste: if we use only one side of the toilet paper, do we not waste half of it, mathematically speaking? And is waste not a bourgeois plot to facilitate and expedite further purchasing and the circulation of the hard-earned wages of the oppressed? Well, this reminds me of a story: a friend of mine had a friend whose mother ran a halfway house for patients from Napa State Mental Institution who were being reintegrated into society. One such person was a man named Norman. Well, one day, my friend and his friend decided to snort heroin and watch Gilligan's Island when Norman comes into the living room and declares that he's "going to the park."
"What for?"
"To count the trees."
"Wha?" they proclaim in unison.
"Yep. Count the trees," Norman continues in his drooly monotone.
"What the fuck for?"
"The city."
"You're counting trees for the city?"
"Yep. Counting trees. Make sure they're all there."
Well, just then, the friend's friend's mother comes out of the hallway into the living room holding a cardboard box. "GodDAMNit, Norman!" she screams. "I TOLD you about this!" And she throws the box across the room, from which float hundreds of squares of toilet paper, all used on both sides. Apparently Norman would save the toilet paper he used, flip it over, and put it in this box so he could use the other side at a later date. After a short pause, while all watched the brown-and-white fluttering cascade of unutterableness, the two friends look at each other, and one says to the other, "We're out of here." What happened between Norman and his keeper after that is anyone's guess.)

2. "Ultra" what? Huh? HUH?! (Note: "Ultra" is one of the favorite slogans of the bourgeoisie. If something fails or threatens to fail to capture the glassy-eyed attention of the oppressed working class, the label "ultra" is quickly applied to it to give it a kind of magical resonance to which the working class is, alas, not in any way immune. The reasons for this are only dimly understood.)

3. "Cushiony comfort." Okay, first, you can't just make adjectives out of nouns, you just can't. What does "buildingy," mean, for instance? Two, it makes no sense. Three, how exactly is toilet paper comfortable? Does it give you comfort when you feel sad? Does it listen to your problems? Does it provide hemorrhoid relief? No, it does not! (In fact, it is the leading cause of that particular malady.) Comfort? Ha! It's not like you're wiping your ass with silk, geez! (for further enlightenment, v. Bolsheviksky's infamous linguistic treatise, "On the Adjectivization of Menshevick Nounal Anti-Revolutionary Psuedo-Cultural Linguistic Formulations," Journalsky da Bulshitskevisky Linguistiksky, 19:19, 1923.)

3. The dog under the quilt. What is this meant to signify? What are the associations here? Does this toilet paper get dog hair on your butt? Does it feel like there's a potentially dangerous animal living between the 2-ply (of TWELVE rolls, NOT 24!)? Does it warm your ass when you use it? Does it shit on the rug? Do you have to feed it? Walk it? Take it to the groomers? Is toilet paper Man's Best Friend? WHAT?! (It should be noted here that certain Freudian interpreters have alluded to the primitivistic associations between the domesticated animal and the colonic evacuation of waste product. This association is, of course, intimated in myth: consider Jung's famous discussion of the Botswanan K'Ung'k tribe's famous myth: The Lion Who Shat Ten Thousand Cubs And How Those Cubs Came to Rule the World and Then to Lose Their Rule Through Means Heavenly and Thus Inscrutable and so Not Necessarily Within Their Control.) Or: is the dog symbolizing the turd, and the quilt/bed combination the colon? The mind reels.

Feel free to add to the list. This revolution is yours, too, after all.

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