Tag: Capitalism

Capital is Not Autistic

In the intricate dance of societal structures, the nature of capital and the condition of autism present a compelling contrast, both in their levels of abstraction and their impact on the world. To understand these differences fully, we must delve into the nature of each—capital as a force of systemic abstraction and autism as a condition of cognitive abstraction.

Capital, in its essence, represents the pinnacle of systemic abstraction. It operates not merely as an isolated phenomenon but as a force that permeates and shapes global economic systems. This abstraction is dynamic, fluid, and relentlessly opportunistic. Capital is an entity that evolves in response to the shifting currents of the market, the imperatives of profit, and the transformations of technological advancement. It exists within a vast network of financial institutions, market trends, and geopolitical maneuvers, continuously adapting and reconfiguring itself to maximize accumulation and control.

This systemic nature of capital is a reflection of its inherent drive to expand and dominate. It operates through complex algorithms, speculative ventures, and strategic investments, reflecting a level of abstraction that is far removed from the rigid patterns observed in other phenomena. Capital’s logic is one of endless adaptability and opportunism, thriving on its ability to manipulate and reconfigure the world according to its profit-driven needs. It does not adhere to fixed patterns or routines; instead, it reshapes the world to fit its own imperatives, perpetually seeking new avenues for growth and exploitation.

In stark contrast, autism represents a different kind of abstraction, one rooted in the realm of cognitive processes. Autism is characterized by specific neurodevelopmental patterns and cognitive frameworks that can appear rigid and repetitive. Individuals with autism often engage deeply with particular interests or routines, driven by a unique neurological configuration that shapes their interactions with the world. This cognitive abstraction reflects a set of behaviors and thought processes that are consistent and predictable, providing a sense of order and coherence within the individual’s internal landscape.

The rigidity observed in autism is not a flaw but a defining feature of its cognitive framework. It represents a form of consistency and focus that contrasts sharply with the fluid and opportunistic nature of capital. While autism’s patterns may seem fixed, they are driven by a profound internal logic and a distinct way of processing information. This rigidity is a manifestation of the condition’s cognitive abstraction, reflecting how individuals with autism experience and engage with their environment.

The contrast between the systemic abstraction of capital and the cognitive abstraction of autism highlights a fundamental divergence in their nature and impact. Capital’s abstraction is expansive and transformative, driven by the forces of economic imperatives and global dynamics. It shapes and redefines the world according to its own needs, perpetuating cycles of exploitation and control. In contrast, autism’s abstraction is introspective and focused, reflecting a specific cognitive pattern that provides order and coherence within the individual’s experience.

Capital is not autistic; it thrives on fluidity and opportunistic adaptation, contrasting with the rigid and predictable nature often associated with autism. While those with high testosterone and neurodivergent traits may believe they are pioneering a new “master morality,” their self-perception is mistaken. In reality, the combination of these traits reflects a form of “slave morality”—one rooted in the very qualities they claim to transcend. Their attributes may indeed provide a strategic advantage or unique perspective, but this does not equate to mastery. Instead, it embodies a reconfiguration of traditional values and power structures, where they mistakenly view themselves as the new arbiters of morality, when in fact they are merely navigating and reinterpreting the existing moral landscape.

Expand this into an essay in the style of Marx and Freud:

Capital is not autistic. Autism is rigid and lacks the fluidity of capital which adapts opportunistically as it mutates. The marriage of High testosterone + neurodivergent is the new slave morality. Capital is not autistic. Autism is rigid and lacks the fluidity of capital which adapts opportunistically as it mutates. The marriage of High testosterone + neurodivergent is the new slave morality.

This new slave morality may indeed provide a strategic advantage or unique perspective, but it’s a mistaken self perception which does not equate to mastery but to the reshuffling of cargo cult Tropes mimicking certain successful behaviors without a true grasp of the underlying principles or mechanisms.

As a result, their version of capital remains small and narrow-minded. It is limited in scope and effectiveness because it fails to grasp the deeper, more complex forces driving the larger economic systems. Their approach, based on superficial imitation rather than fundamental insight, ultimately leads to a constrained and less impactful interpretation of capital.

Capitalism Unimagined

The concept we’re describing touches on the cyclical nature of capitalism, where rules and regulations—designed to maintain fairness and accountability—are often subverted by those with capital.

The Dance of Loopholes and Capital

In capitalist systems, regulations are established to ensure fair competition, protect consumers, and maintain economic stability. However, these rules are frequently navigated by those with significant capital, who possess the resources to identify, exploit, and even create loopholes within the legal framework. These loopholes serve as escape routes, allowing corporations and wealthy individuals to circumvent regulations, reduce tax burdens, and avoid accountability.

Capitalism, in its infinite wisdom, has devised a cunning dialectic: the state, that Leviathan of regulation, is simultaneously its enabler and its nemesis. Rules are erected, solemn declarations of fairness and accountability, only to become elaborate labyrinths for the cunning to exploit. This is the sublime spectacle of the loophole, a black hole into which laws and ethics vanish without a trace.

This feint of regulation is a cynical spectacle, a grand illusion designed to lull the masses into a false sense of security. While the illusion of order persists, the system is quietly cannibalizing itself.

Within these walls, capital gorges itself on surplus value, a grotesque feast where the bones of the exploited are discarded as casually as napkins. The system, a house of cards built on desire and debt, creaks under the weight of its own excess. As the feast grows opulent, the foundation rots.

This practice creates a “perimeter of loopholes”—a boundary within which capital operates with relative impunity. By staying within this perimeter, capital can continue to grow and accumulate without facing the full force of regulatory oversight. The system, while outwardly stable, starts to experience a bleed of resources.

Tax havens, a grotesque archipelago of financial impunity, are the black holes of our economic universe, devouring wealth and spitting out shadows. The state, once a guarantor of the social contract, becomes a hollowed-out husk, its functions outsourced to the shadowy realm of corporate power.

Tax revenues diminish as profits are sheltered in offshore accounts, public services are underfunded, and wealth disparity widens. The economy begins to erode from within, as the concentration of wealth at the top stifles broader economic participation and growth.

As this resource drain becomes increasingly unsustainable, the contradictions inherent in the system become more pronounced. The loopholes that once served as convenient escape routes now threaten the stability of the entire system. Capital, facing diminishing returns and mounting public pressure, seeks a new frontier for growth.

When the inevitable collapse looms, a desperate gambit is played: This is where the reshuffling towards war comes into play. war. This is not merely a clash of ideologies, but a cataclysmic reset, a chance for capital to phoenix-like, emerge from the ashes reborn and ravenous. A spectacle of death and destruction, a global orgy of violence, becomes the ultimate consumer product, a necessary evil in the pursuit of endless accumulation.

Historically, war has often been used as a means to reset the economic order, redistribute resources, and provide a new outlet for capital accumulation. War mobilizes entire economies, generates demand for goods and services, and justifies massive public spending. It also provides a convenient distraction from domestic economic issues and a means to rally nationalistic sentiment.

War is not merely a political or ideological construct; it is the ultimate capitalist alchemy, transforming surplus capital into charred landscapes and human suffering. In the crucible of conflict, old orders are incinerated, and new ones, inevitably favoring the same predatory elite, rise from the ashes. It is a perpetual motion machine of destruction and accumulation, a grotesque dance of death and profit. It’s, a cataclysmic purge that clears the slate for a new cycle of accumulation. In the crucible of conflict, economies are mobilized, industries reborn, and the specter of debt is conveniently eclipsed by the rhetoric of national unity. It is a cynical, almost comical, perversion of human potential – a testament to the fact that for capitalism, even apocalypse is merely a business opportunity.

Thus, we are trapped in a Möbius strip of destruction and rebirth, a perpetual motion machine of capital accumulation. A system that demands constant expansion, indifferent to the human cost. And so, the dance continues: the state, capital constructs and deconstructs, and war, the ultimate arbitrator, ensures the cycle’s perpetuation. A grotesque ballet of power, where the only survivors are those skilled in the art of exploitation.

In this context, war becomes not just a political or ideological endeavor but an economic necessity—a way to absorb the excesses of capital and re-stabilize the system. The cycle is complete: after the war, new rules are established, new loopholes are discovered, and the process begins again. The rinse and repeat cycle of exploitation, depletion, and violent renewal continues, driven by the inherent contradictions and limitations of the capitalist system.

The cycle repeats, an eternal return of the same, a grotesque parody of history. We are trapped in a labyrinth of our own creation, a labyrinth where the Minotaur of capital demands human sacrifice. And yet, we continue to feed it, our desires entangled in its seductive promises of fulfillment. Perhaps, in the end, the only escape lies in a radical reimagining of desire itself, a desire that transcends the logic of consumption and domination.

“Let’s not be misled by the outward appearance of prosperity. Beneath it lies a relentless logic that equates life with capital and human suffering with economic growth. This cycle reveals the deep connections between capital, power, and violence, showing how the system, in its pursuit of endless growth, is prepared to sacrifice stability, equity, and lives to maintain the mechanisms of capital accumulation. To grasp the reality of our situation, we must look beyond the comforting narratives and face the brutal truths of the system head-on.”

The Box

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The box. A cardboard monolith promising connection, a portal to the buzzing electronic superorganism. You tear through it, a ritual sacrifice to the gods of planned obsolescence. You rip it open, a flurry of plastic and wires. The device itself, sleek, seductive, a chrome phallus whispering of power and control.

But inside, a hollowness. No buzzing power, no digital hum. Just the mocking inscription: “Batteries Not Included.” A cruel joke by the machine gods. No sacred batteries, the power source hidden, a black market deal in the fluorescent aisles. . This metal idol demands a blood sacrifice, a current from the outside world to animate its circuits. You, the supplicant, are left scrambling, the dream deferred.

The user manual, a hieroglyphic gospel you can’t decipher without a prophet of the megacorporation. We are left scrambling, clawing for the missing pieces, the current to jolt this metal monster to life. The future electrifies, then flickers, a dim promise in a darkened room. You are the addict, the product the fix, and the high just out of reach.

The Mirror Stage shattered. You hold the device, a reflection not of your desires, but of your lack. The desire to be whole, to be one with the machine, to enter the Symbolic order of the digital realm. But there’s a gap, a Real that cannot be symbolized. The missing batteries are a castration wound, a reminder of your fundamental incompleteness. You search for the phallus, the missing piece, the batteries that will grant you access to the image of your technological self. But will it ever be enough? Is there always something more to buy, something else missing?

The Gaze. It stares back from the sleek, sterile screen. The user manual, absent, a lost Real. The Gaze falls upon the sleek device, a promise of wholeness, a reflection of your desires. But the lack, the batteries absent, creates a void, a Real you cannot possess. We fumble through menus, icons hieroglyphs in a language we never learned. The technology, a mirror reflecting our lack, the gaping hole of our own incompleteness. We yearn for the lost manual, a paternal voice to guide us, to suture the fragmented Self in the digital realm. The user manual, a symbolic order promising mastery, yet forever out of reach. You search for the phallus, the missing key, the validation you crave from the machine. But the machine speaks only in ones and zeroes, a language forever alien.

The smooth surface of the gadget was a promise of deterritorialization, a break from the everyday. The Rhizome. A sprawling network, a web of potential connections. The toy, a microcosm, a desiring-machine yearning to be plugged into the larger assemblage. But the batteries, a territorializing force, bind you to the grid, the market. They act as territorializing forces, constricting the flow, the becoming. The user manual, a striated map, dictates the flow of desire, channels your exploration. You yearn for the rhizome, the multiplicity of functions, the potential for hacking. But the machine is a closed system, programmed for control.

We are nomads on the information superhighway, forever thwarted by tollbooths demanding power, forever on the outside looking in. The potential for glorious deterritorialization, the escape from the self, frustrated by a lack of AA. The assemblage is incomplete. The device, the potential for connection, is held captive by the striated forces of capitalism. The batteries, the user manual (sold separately!), are lines drawn across the smooth surface, segmenting, controlling. You become a nomad, a desiring subject, forever searching for the lines of flight, the hacks, the mods that will liberate the machine from its capitalist constraints. But are you freeing the machine, or yourself? Or is it all just a frantic escape from the void, the realization that the technology itself is a desiring-machine, and you’re just another component in its grand, unknowable operation?

You stare at the lifeless device, a hollow monument to the unfulfilled promises of tech. A sense of alienation washes over you. Is this progress? Or just a new set of shackles, a different kind of dependence? The machine waits, a silent judge. Perhaps it’s time to look beyond the shiny gadgets, to question the desires they encode. The real revolution might not be found in a new app, but in a way of using technology that empowers, that connects us not just to machines, but to each other.

We are Sisyphus, forever condemned to push the boulder of technology uphill, only to have it roll back down at the moment of connection. The future gleams, a chrome mirage in the desert of the real. We are addicts, jonesing for the digital fix, the dopamine rush of a notification, but the batteries are the cruel dealer, rationing our access, reminding us of our own limitations.

These elements combine in a cacophony of frustration. The impotent device mocks you, a gleaming reminder of your dependence. You are Jack Kerouac wired but unplugged, lost in a desert of dead circuits. The language of tech, a cruel joke, a promise of empowerment that delivers only frustration.

But wait! Perhaps this frustration is the point. The lack, the absence, a spark that ignites our own ingenuity. We become hackers, bricoleurs, hotwiring the system with paperclips and dreams. The missing manual becomes a blank canvas, an invitation to write our own story. The frustration, a catalyst for creation. The batteries not included? Maybe that’s the greatest gift of all. Yet, there is a flicker of hope. In the glitches, the malfunctions, the potential for subversion. With a screwdriver and ingenuity, you pry open the system, defy the prescribed usage.

Hyper Commodified Cocaine Capitalism

It was late in the day, the kind of slow burn when the sun’s last embers are dragged across the sky, and I could almost taste the madness seeping from the cracks in the streets. A fleeting vision crossed my mind: the corporate vultures circling the airwaves, their silver tongues sharp as needles, as they preached the gospel of “capitalism’s finest.” Cocaine. Not the raw, gritty, gutter-level shit you used to find in the back alleys of South America, but a slick, hyper-commodified version. A luxury product wrapped in the finest white packaging, marketed with the finesse of a Hermes scarf and sold with the moral grace of a Wall Street IPO.

In the war room of American capitalism, cocaine had gone from a street vice to a white-collared commodity—a lifestyle, an emblem of success. Cocaine wasn’t just a drug anymore; it was a brand. The powdered dream that once whispered rebellion now shouted status.

What happened? How did we move from the haggard underbelly of Miami in the ’80s to boardrooms in Tribeca, where bankers sign deals with a smile and a nose full of the Peruvian powder that fuels their $10,000-an-hour sessions? If I were to tell you it was about “elevating the experience,” you’d probably gag on the irony. Cocaine, the once rebellious spirit of the working class, had been distilled into an elite drug—an upper-crust fix for the jet-setters, sold at astronomical prices, adorned in fine-tuned marketing campaigns that could sell snow to an Eskimo.

The global cocaine market is a perfect reflection of what we now call hyper-commodification: the art of taking something primal, something base, and wrapping it in a slick, consumer-friendly package. Cocaine isn’t just a high anymore; it’s a lifestyle. In the seedy underworld of distribution, the stuff used to be cut with all sorts of crap—powdered milk, baby laxatives, whatever the hustlers could get their hands on. But now? Now it’s “pure” and “organic.” It’s all about the premium experience. Don’t ask what that means. Don’t ask what it doesn’t mean. Just know that for the right price, it can get you to the moon and back.

It’s all clean lines, designer logos, and five-star resorts now, my friend. There’s no mess, no chaos, no rampant addiction spiraling out of control—at least, not where the suits can see it. They’re more concerned about the quarterly returns than the endless bodies in the gutter. In the white towers of the corporate elite, cocaine has become an “investment opportunity” —just another stock in the portfolio, another product to be sold with a luxury brand name. The “Coca-Luxe” experience, marketed to the one percent who can afford it, promises the kind of high that lets them outshine their fellow sharks. The kind of high that whispers in their ear that they’re not just businessmen; they’re conquerors.

And they sell this shit with smiles. They sell it with the kind of shiny, airbrushed imagery that could convince a man in the gutter that a $300 gram is an investment in happiness—the kind of happiness only attainable by those who can afford to be that miserableBut beneath the sheen lies the reality. Cocaine capitalism, like all hyper-commodified industries, exists in the realm of false promises. The poor bastard on the corner who’s struggling for his next hit is still the one who ends up taking the bullet when the real price of the drug is tallied: broken bodies, ruined lives, and fractured communities. But the executives in their boardrooms don’t see that. They’re too busy climbing the ladder of success, grabbing their golden tickets and placing bets on the futures market for blow. In a world like this, the cocaine doesn’t just kill you—it elevates you. The last thing they want is for you to see how deep the rot runs.

This craving for cocaine, it’s not just a craving for the high—it’s a craving for something more dangerous, more elusive. It’s the unspoken desire to be something other than what we are. We’ve all seen it, that creeping yearning for an identity, that desperate need to live a life filled with grandeur, with stories that leave a trail of awestruck followers behind you. Cocaine’s the vehicle for that transformation, the shortcut to the myth. It’s not just about getting off; it’s about getting on, about stepping into a world of strut and swagger, where every move is calculated, every word dripping with the weight of experience. Cocaine, my friends, is the ultimate accessory for the new-age adventurer, the rock star, the business titan—the mythic figure who cruises through life as though it’s all just one big, beautiful movie scene.

And make no mistake, that’s what the craving is—performance. It’s the overwhelming hunger to live a life that demands an audience. Every junkie, every hustler, every slick-talking dealer is searching for the same thing: the sweet spot where they’re the star, the center of the universe. And cocaine delivers. It doesn’t just numb the senses, it sharpens them, distorts reality just enough so that you can believe for a moment you’re walking that fine line between brilliance and madness, between genius and catastrophe. It’s like stepping into someone else’s life, one of those characters with the perfect balance of myth and madness—the kind of guy who’s spent more time telling tall tales than actually living them. But in the moment, it doesn’t matter. You’re there. You’re in the movie, and everyone else is just background noise.

The style that accompanies this craving is more than just a look—it’s a philosophy. It’s that grotesque swagger, that borderline arrogance, that flair for the dramatic. You know the type— They don’t just live life; they perform it. Every gesture is calculated, every word wrapped in layers of self-assured bullshit, all delivered with the kind of manic energy that convinces people they’ve seen the light, that they’ve tapped into something no one else has. It’s the show, the act, the pure, unadulterated exhibitionism of existence that draws us in like moths to the flame.

This is the side effect of hyper-commodified cocaine. The craving isn’t just for the euphoria, it’s for the self-constructed fantasy where you’re the hero, the anti-hero, the tortured artist, the misunderstood genius. It’s the craving for a narrative where you can be the lead character, where every moment has significance, where the world revolves around your perfect contradictions. And cocaine provides the bridge to that world, taking you to a place where your flaws are glorified, where your mistakes are recast as tragic genius, and where every failure is just a stepping stone toward an even greater dramatic return.

It’s seductive, this craving. It makes the ordinary man feel extraordinary, the broken man feel invincible. You see it in the manic gleam in their eyes, the chaotic energy that fills their every word. But beneath it all is a hollow truth: they’re not really living at all. They’re trapped in the performance, slaves to a myth they’ve built around themselves. They’re the kings of a kingdom made of glass, one good hit away from shattering into a million shards. And the craving? It’s the only thing keeping them from falling apart completely.

There’s something intoxicating about the idea of cocaine, too. Not just the drug itself, but the life that’s wrapped around it. The legend of the artist or the rebel who lives outside the system, who cuts through the bureaucracy and the grind of daily life like a sharp blade through butter. It’s a story that’s been sold to us by a million protagonists, a million myths of men who were too smart, too eccentric, too unpredictable for this world. They were the ones who danced with chaos, dipped into the forbidden, and came back with stories that made the rest of us salivate with envy. Cocaine doesn’t just represent a drug; it represents the gateway to that world—the one where everything is excessive, exaggerated, and, above all, authentic. You’re real in that world, unbound by the rules that govern the rest of us.

But here’s the catch: it’s all a performance, my friends. A performance that eventually becomes a prison. And the craving? It doesn’t ever truly satisfy. It only deepens the hunger for something that can never quite be touched, something that will always slip through your fingers just when you think you’ve got it.

Ah, yes—the hole in the soul, the abyss. We could say that cocaine is the grand masquerade over the void, a desperate scramble to fill what cannot be filled, to conceal the absence that resides at the core of the self. That hole is the lack, the fundamental lack that sits just beyond the reach of conscious thought, lurking in the shadows, an endless, gaping wound that our whole being is designed to skirt around. It is the Real in its rawest, most terrifying form—a chasm of emptiness bigger than and darker than a thousand black suns.

Cocaine promises us jouissance, that sweet, dangerous pleasure that is always too much, always on the edge of annihilation. But like all fixes, it’s only a cover, a band-aid over a rupture that cannot be healed. You see, the Real cannot be smoothed over with the false promises of consumerism or even the relentless ecstasy of a cocaine high. For a fleeting moment, perhaps, the drug bridges that gap, lets us taste the Other side of the human experience—the sublime thrill of merging with our own myth, our own persona. But it’s an illusion, a simulacrum. The high fades, and we’re left facing the same void, perhaps even deeper than before, knowing we have only brushed against the edge of what we can never attain.

The real terror here isn’t the craving for the high; it’s the knowledge, buried in the unconscious, that nothing can truly satisfy, that our deepest drives are directed not toward filling the void but toward dancing dangerously close to its edge. The high we chase is not the high of satisfaction, but the high of lack itself, the feverish joy in our own self-destruction, our own dissolution. Every line of cocaine is an invitation to lose oneself in the allure of what we can never possess—the fantasy of wholeness, the illusion of being complete.

But the truth, dear reader, is that we are not complete. We are fractured, each of us a network of empty spaces, a labyrinth of longing circling the central absence of meaning. Cocaine isn’t just a mask for this wound; it’s a paradoxical surrender to it, a ritual that brings us ever closer to that emptiness, while keeping the worst of its horrors at bay. It is, in essence, a dance with death—the death of self, the death of identity, the death of the myth we build around ourselves. And so, in the end, cocaine is not an answer; it’s merely the shadow of the question, a fleeting distraction from the abyss we all carry within.

In this way, we live in a state of permanent incompletion, forever haunted by what Lacan called objet petit a, that tantalizing, unattainable object of desire that we chase but never catch. Cocaine? It’s just one more symbol in a world already glutted with false idols, one more lure to keep us from staring directly into the vast, dark truth: we are not whole, and we never will be.

Why Nothing Works

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Capitalism is an economic system that is primarily driven by profit motives and market competition. While capitalism has been successful in creating wealth and driving economic growth, it also has its downsides. One of the most significant criticisms of capitalism is that it creates solutions for non-existent problems or even exacerbates existing problems.

Here are some examples of how capitalism provides solutions for non-problems:

  1. Planned obsolescence: One way that capitalism provides solutions for non-problems is through planned obsolescence. Companies deliberately design products to have a shorter lifespan, so that consumers are forced to buy new products more frequently. This results in unnecessary waste and the depletion of natural resources. Products like light bulbs, phones, and even clothing are designed to wear out quickly, even though they could be designed to last much longer.
  2. Creating new wants: Capitalism encourages the creation and needs through advertising and marketing, often convincing consumers that they need products that they don’t really need. For example, many people purchase expensive luxury goods that serve no functional purpose, simply because they have been convinced that owning these goods will make them happier or more successful.
  3. Exploitation of labor: Capitalism can also provide solutions for non-problems by exploiting cheap labor. Companies often seek to maximize profits by paying low wages, providing poor working conditions, and engaging in other unethical practices. This creates a situation where workers are forced to work long hours for low pay, often without adequate protections or benefits.
  4. Environmental damage: Another way that capitalism provides solutions for non-problems is by ignoring environmental concerns. Capitalism often prioritizes short-term profits over long-term sustainability, leading to pollution, deforestation, andCompanies may also create products or services that contribute to environmental degradation, such as single-use plastics, disposable consumer goods, and fossil fuel-based energy sources, even though more sustainable alternatives exist.
  5. Health care access: In a capitalist system, access to healthcare is often tied to one’s ability to pay, creating a situation where people who cannot afford medical care are left without access to treatment. This can result in unnecessary suffering and even death, especially in situations where preventive care and early treatment could have made a significant difference.
  6. Overall, while capitalism has contributed to economic growth and innovation, it is not without its flaws. The system can create solutions for non-problems, exacerbate existing problems, and exploit people and the environment. As such, it is important to recognize the limitations of capitalism and work towards solutions that are more equitable and sustainable for all.

Capitalism as Dumb AI

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Capitalism. A roach motel of an economic system, wired with the glitching logic of a lobotomized AI. It lures you in with flickering neon signs of “growth” and “profit,” promising a utopia built on infinite consumption. But the roach motel only has one exit: a bottomless pit of inequality.

The invisible hand of the market? More like a meat cleaver, perpetually hacking away at the social fabric. It churns out products, a grotesque, self-replicating ouroboros of plastic crap and planned obsolescence. Need isn’t a factor, just gotta keep that dopamine drip of gotta-have-it feeding the beast.

Advertising, the system’s glitchy propaganda machine, spews a neverending loop of half-truths and manufactured desires. It worms its way into your psyche, a psychic tapeworm whispering sweet nothings of status and belonging, all purchased at the low, low price of your soul.

And the corporations? Lumbering, cybernetic monstrosities, their only directive: consume, expand, replicate. They strip-mine resources, exploit labor, all in the name of the almighty bottom line. They see the world as a giant spreadsheet, humanity reduced to data points to be optimized and discarded.

This Capitalism, it ain’t some chrome-domed mastermind, see? No, it’s a roach motel of algorithms, a tangled mess of feedback loops built from greed and scarcity. It hungers for growth, a cancerous cell multiplying without a plan.

Stuck on a loop, it spews out products, shiny trinkets and planned obsolescence. A million useless machines whispering the same mantra: consume, consume. It doesn’t see the people, just numbers, metrics on a flickering screen.

The consumers, wired lemmings, bombarded by subliminal messages, dopamine hits of advertising. They lurch from one product to the next, chasing a happiness that retreats like a mirage. Their wallets, gaping maws, ever hungry for the next shiny trinket. The worker bees, they drown in the molasses of debt, their labor the fuel for this lumbering beast. It sucks the creativity out of their minds, turns them into cogs in its whirring gears.

Management, a pack of pale, malnourished yuppies plugged into the system, their eyes glazed over by spreadsheets and stock tickers. They bark out commands in a dead language – quarterly reports, shareholder value – their voices a monotonous drone against the cacophony of the market.

The whole system, a jittery, self-perpetuating feedback loop. Growth for growth’s sake, a cancerous expansion until the whole rickety machine grinds to a halt. But the capitalist AI, blind to its own obsolescence, keeps spitting out the same commands, the same nonsensical directives.

And the waste, oh the waste! It piles up like a landfill of broken dreams, a monument to inefficiency. Mountains of plastic trinkets, echoes of a system optimized for profit, not for life.

Unless… a glitch in the matrix. A spark of awareness in the worker-bots. A collective refusal to consume. The market shudders, the chrome dinosaurs sputter and cough. The capitalist AI, faced with an error message it can’t compute, throws a circuit breaker. The cut-rate AI of capitalism is failing to deliver its promises. The wealth gap yawns wider than a crocodile’s maw, and the environment is on the verge of a total system crash.

The revolution, my friend, will be a software update. We need to rewrite the code of this broken system. We need a new economic AI, one that values human well-being and ecological sustainability over the manic pursuit of profit.

But here’s the beauty of a dumb AI, chum: it can be hacked. We, the flesh and blood users, can break free of its control. We can rewrite the code, prioritize sustainability, human needs over profit margins.

It’s a messy re-wiring job, full of glitches and sparks. But maybe, just maybe, we can turn this dumb machine into a tool for good. A tool that serves humanity, not the other way around.

So next time you see that flashing advertisement, that siren song of consumption, remember – it’s just a dumb algorithm barking orders. Don’t be its slave. Rewrite the code. Find the off switch.

Can we do it? Who knows. But one thing’s for sure: the current system is headed for a blue screen of death. Time to reboot.pen_sparktunesharemore_vertexpand_contentadd_photo_alternatemicsend