Back Off, I'm a Corporate Whore

[bridgit]

Here's what you should know right off: there is no secret handshake.

I was, to say the least, slightly disappointed. There is no secret code, no password, no futuristic RFID chip implanted straight into my retina allowing me instant, bar-coded access to gleaming glass corridors in the NSA, Goldman Sachs and the U.S. Treasury. There's not even a diamond-encrusted golden key in the shape of a dollar sign that opens recessed steel doors to underground lairs or private cocaine stashes stored in the perfect vaginas of flawless Brazilian supermodels. Alas.

Also, no blood. No swapping of any bodily fluids whatsoever, no ceremony where you go to a sweaty, fur-lined conference room, the lawyer stabs his palm, you stab your palm, and you chant some sort of dark incantation to the gods of filthy lucre, offshore bank accounts and D.C. lobbyists. As you shake bloody hands, you swear to oppress the workers, exploit the tax code and patron multiple Vegas whorehouses and/or LA fetish nightclubs for your Republican Party/NRA donor slut-fests.

But none of that really matters. Despite the lack of expected ritual and violence, I now officially own your pathetic and meager soul. It's true. I have joined my corporate brothers in holding draconian dominion over all you see and hear and say and do and read and believe, forever and ever. Amen. Just the way it is.

Let me explain.

http://www.commondreams.org/view/2010/04/02-4