The best thing about critical journalism is that you get to shed light on all the world issues without solving a single one. A cynical attitude towards life will come in handy in this respect.
These were thoughts that went through my mind the other day when I understood that my four year old nephew was part of a capitalist conspiracy to steal food from poor children in the East. The little bugger sat quietly on the floor playing with toys manufactured by Disney. My line of reasoning went as follows: a generation ago the entrepeneur Walt Disney produced a product with world wide potential, and on the back of this success he conjured up an international mega company who specialised in satisfying the imaginative cravings of brats and toddlers. A network of connections was then established in order to exploit cheap labor accross the planet, and a propaganda machinery of the Goebbels-type was supposed to brainwash the kids in order to produce artificial demand. This was the height of capitalism: the marked mechanisms exploited a concept based on talking ducks in a sailor suit.
And who were the losers? Was it the children who were to interpret the world through an absurd dream in which half naked animals communicated through talking bubles in a cartoon? Was it the employees in the company who never had satisfied their human need for meaningful work? Was it the poor laborers in the third world who were given the option of starving or produce ten centimeter models of Clarabelle Cow?
This was what happened when the bourgoisie was given control of the means of production. How could they talk about inefficiency in the old Soviet Union? The tiny exploiteur glanced at me, happily unaware that he partook in a drama about hunger, prostitution and murder. I had to perform a revolutionary act. I had to awaken the brainwashed multitudes from a condition of apathy, an opium delirium. “Give me Donald and Clarabelle Cow!” “No!” “Yes! Give them to me now!” With teary eyes he was drawn out of his freudian child universe. “Daddy. Daddy. Uncle took Donald!!” “Daddy is not here, and I am not so easily manipulated!” “Stupid. Pee. Poo. Fart” Then he stumbled into the bathroom, slammed the door shut and smeared his father’s hemorrhoid cream all over the sink. It was a victory for democracy.
by Michael Henrik Wynn