In this world, there’s a metric assload of mouth breathing troglodytes that worship the altar of cash.
Some of them are subtle about their disease. Presented well, they are meticulously unassuming about their perilous condition – that is, that there is very little beyond the frivolous fabrics that blanket their shell. Big brand items gloriously mask small fry souls.
But at least these poor little piglets have trumped up enough gusto to make a humble buck. And there is nothing wrong with cash. We all need it. It gets us everything we need, and many things we don’t. And if an empty husk is smart enough to carve out an ostentatious niche of gratuitious excess, who are we to say what they spend it on?
To worship it as a deity however, that’s a notching it up a whole level of dead.
It’s hard to count the amount of marginalized, single synapsers – who clearly don’t have two red pennies to rub together – who flaunt, cheap, tawdry, wretched exclaimations of their devotion to the dollar.
Cheap shirts made in China emblazoned with “Cash is king”, “Money=God”, and the almighty abomination, the ubiquitous Ed Hardy label – who once enjoyed 5 minutes of being a premium brand, before two-bit flea markets cottoned on to the fact that moronic rednecks swarm to the bedazzled bastardry of the brand like vultures to a corpse, and duplicated it out of any prestige.
If you seriously wear a shirt which proclaims currency as your apex, these questions need to be asked.
Will your god save you when you are denied your god? If your bank balance draws a bright red zero, after you have spent all your coins on worthless shit – that buried inside the noise and bustle of the consumerist static pit, no-body pays attention to anyway – will it answer your desperate calls?
If you do launch into a pile of dough by a stroke of sheer luck, and after you have bought your Hummer, McMansion, god-awful diamonte rubbish and plowed your way through scores of easily-bought tarts… what then? Money can buy material, it can’t buy class. It can buy power, but it can’t buy respect. It can certainly make things easier, but if you are granted glory by your god, you’re still left in a cold ivory tower.
And god forbid one day, if the sun decides to switch off it’s nourishing light – when the world is dead and buried – and you have a million looted units of your god tucked in a briefcase, perhaps you could cook it up and eat it, in the hope to obtain fiscal nourishment? Of course not. You’ll be the same poor shmuck fossicking through a bin looking for a stale bread roll like the rest.
Unfortunatley, for most of these morons, a situation like this is the only promise of redemption – to realise that not only is your god dead; it never even lived.