I'm a Marketing Specialist and I can confidently say you've been tricked into liking everything you have ever liked.
Sorry, I guess.
I got bad news for you, and that news is that you don’t know shit.
You think that you’re a discerning, unique human with refined, well-developed taste. You are actually a puppet being manipulated either by strings or a hand up the butt; the choice is up to the puppeteer.
More bad news, I’m the puppeteer, and I prefer manipulation by butt hand.
You like the band “Geese” because we saw there was a band calling themselves “Geese,” and we thought it was funny that their name was "Geese,” so we decided to tell you about “Geese,” and that’s the only reason why you like them. It’s not because their music is “good,” or because it “fits your specific taste,” or “makes you feel things when you listen to it,” it’s just because we told you about it. We told you about it so much in so many ways that you thought it was your own idea.
Nothing is your own idea.
Everything you have ever liked entered your consciousness because somebody like me put it there. Everything you’ve ever hated has been planted by somebody like me as well, as a way to make you think you have a choice about what you like and don’t like. Remember when you either loved or made fun of the band Nickelback for a full decade of your life? That was because we hand-picked Nickelback and plopped them in front of you to allow you to either rock out and feel cool about music or to roll your eyes and scoff and feel cool about music. Great way to spend 12.5% of your life, by the way.
Think of your favorite song by your favorite band. Think of how it makes you feel alive when you listen to it. Think of how you can put it on after having a shitty day and feel a little bit better. Think about how it makes you feel happy, or understood, or like you belong in a world that often times doesn’t make a lick of sense.
Now say thank you to me.
I’m waiting. Say it. Say “thank you, Mr. Marketing Specialist, because I’d never be able to feel alive if it wasn’t for you. My favorite song would be relegated to an unheard GarageBand file on some failure’s hard drive, or getting accidental clicks on YouTube because the artist named the song something really close to a popular song as a little trick to try to get people to find them online but the only little tricks that work are your big tricks, Mr. Marketing Specialist, so, once again, I say thank you.”
Our manipulation doesn’t stop at just music or other types of “art,” either, sweetie. What’s your favorite type of day? Perhaps a crisp, cool, breezy, “sweater-weather,” Autumn afternoon perfectly suited for a hot pumpkin spiced latte and a walk through a park? Sorry, Charlie, you wouldn’t even know the word “crisp” if we didn’t put it on your radar. Don’t even get me started on “sweater-weather.” The dude who came up with “sweater-weather”’s family won’t have to work for generations upon generations because he coined that phrase. That guy is a god damn legend, and you think you like the fall because you’d “rather be a little chilly because when you’re too hot you can only take off so much but when you’re a little chilly you can always put on another layer and get cozy.” Fuck you.
Do you love your mom? That’s us, too. Unconditional love is an idea we created as a way to sell plane tickets back home and jack up the prices during the holiday season (another thing we came up with that you think you love because it reminds you of your childhood, oh shit, childhood is another one of our greatest tricks.)
Are you religious? Do you believe in a higher power?
I’m not going to tell you that a higher power doesn’t exist and that you’re wasting your time or coping with your fear of death and the unknown by placing your hope on an all-knowing entity who created the universe and cares for us and has a plan for us all and is in control of the strings of all of existence. Because they do exist. But they definitely don’t care about you, and they’re not pulling any strings. Their hand is up your butt.
It’s my hand. My hand is up your butt.
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