I went for a walk today.
(Forgive my deviation into meatspace; but I wish to discourse amusingly in a vague and anecdotal fashion. Normal quasi-misanthropism will resume soon.)
Limited as my existence is to a suburban dystopia which I shan't name for all our sakes, this inevitably involved an encounter with shops; and, indeed, the ubiquitous T*scos.
I am not hugely fond of T*scos. Or, indeed, supermarkets in general; the ultra-concentration of material for the sole purpose of massaging capital and the servicing the material needs it fuels through its own advertising somehow irks me. People - meat, walking meat - wander round aisles buying meat raised in caged aisles with the specific, consuming desires of that walking meat in mind. A blatant assertion of species bias; to raise an animal with the specific purpose of slaughter in mind suggests you feel it is inherently permissible to kill that animal even if unnecessary, which suggests in turn you feel yourself to be superior to it. And, given that, in order to purchase that carcass you must subject yourself, for a time, to the cramped and stifling conditions in which the animal lived (or, rather, suffered), I see little basis for such a conclusion of superiority.
Yes, supermarkets repel me, and so I try to stay away; or, if that fails, I make a mess. Which you might say happened today, more or less. Approaching the graveyard of chickens that is the frozen meatspace (for you, it's a shop. For them, it is the holocaust. Or, the apocalypse, given how holocaust actuallly derives from the word for conflagration. Fucksticks. The tyranny of language indeed.), I decided to erect a memorial. One frigid bird mounted another as I slowly constructed my mausoleum (and a somewhat ugly metaphor to accompany it.)
Incidentally, if you're ever in a frozen goods section and try to construct a wall in protest at man's inhumanity to chickens, try lamb instead. It's easier to stack.
This attracted a crowd. That was, I suppose, a step; you can never quite pass on a message if no-one is listening. Unfortunately, I suspect none of them were listening anyway, the central topic of their thoughts and whispers being what they no doubt conceived of as my spurious mental stability (fools.)
They clearly needed instruction. And so, as Zaranthustra climbed a mountain and spake as though he had something worth saying (as though anyone really does), I finished my mausoleum. There was a sign nearby offering these poor, dead creatures at a price of 3 for 2; I tore it from its holder and scrawled "DACHAU" on the back.
(Accustomed as they were to the standard nadir-wards plunge most make in their references I suspect that that one passed them by.)
At this stage, security arrived. They challenged me; I provided my usual response, with an added diatribe on how, as corporate slaves to the suits who commissioned the slaughter, they were party to attempted genocide and so under the precedent set by the Nuremburg Trials should be hung.
They threw me out. Little did my entreaties to them to renounce their ways (I even promised not to hang them!) help; little did my point that, all land being held in common (clearly, no-one is born in possession of the land, and so long as there might be a common use, none have the right to take it. ~Take possession if it is for your own good, and doesn't impinge on the good of others. But don't assume a private right to any land or material naturally held by none.) T*scos, and thus they, had no right to determination over the patch in which I had erected the shrine.
Thus ended my escapade. I suspect I am now banned from the premises; but why should that stop me? Land is held in common, and I must make my point.
So, next time, I may invite the press...