Black Friday makes me want to jump off a cliff into a pile of rusty knives. I can’t think of anything worse than waking up at the butt-crack of dawn to go shopping in a crowded mall full of deal-crazed screamy people while the smell of pretzel donuts fills the air and dance beats blast over the sound system.
Seriously, why are they always playing that horrible uplifting dance music? Are they trying to force me to be happy? Shopping is not Happy Time. I don’t want to do the sandbar shimmy while I try on pants, I want to feel awkward and inadequate like God intended.
It’s Hispanic Heritage Month. Break out a novelty sombrero and a bottle of Patron, because like a taco smothered in salsa, heritage is waay more palpable when it’s smothered in consumerism…
I often encounter people who don’t understand why I identify as Hispanic. I’ve given it a lot of thought and I think it comes down to this: they’re eating the shit sandwich.
The shit sandwich is served-up fresh daily by consumerism. Let’s process culture, strip it of all that gunk we don’t need (like knowledge and power), and behold — now you can buy a poncho at Urban Outfitters. Culture itself has no value outside the bounds of consumption.
Culture is no different than a box of cereal.