Did you hear that the blond oil cartel lady that’s always on TV—“the deeper you go,” says she, “the more good things you learn”—isn’t a real human being? Yup, that’s true. The news is all over the internet and, I don’t mind saying, I’d already suspected as much in my own wicked mind. I mean, here’s this blond oil cartel lady who’s constantly on all of the TV channels and radio stations, inside newspapers and magazines, coming through the mailbox and up on billboards—already she’s clocked more screen time than Marilyn Monroe and Elizabeth Taylor put together—yet nobody knows her name, or what country she’s from, or how she got her job, or how much money she’s making. While they keep the camera jumping around to try’n keep you from gazing into her eyes, freeze-frame your TV, get up close, take a gander and, I swear, those eyes are so spooky you can’t even tell what color they are. It’s a giant commercial vacuum inside those eyes; its funhouse mirrors filled with ranks and files of empty safe deposit boxes replicating themselves into infinity.
The oil cartel lady isn’t some kind of Stepford Wife robot, either. For one thing, the Stepford Wives were fictional and, for another, they were programmed to be the Ideal Woman from the rich suburbanite’s point of view: hard working, neat, organized, bright, submissive and alluring. Putting aside their sex and status appeal, the Stepford robots were the functional equivalents of a perfect company slave: you get a productive, reliable worker, you have no healthcare costs and, after it’s outlived its usefulness, you don’t have to feed and clothe it and, when it dies, you get no funeral bill. From the point of view of some high-rise Imperialist having African diamonds to mine, supply lines to secure and savages to civilize, the Stepford robots made soldiers so perfectly programmed they’d die before they’d question the wisdom of an order, much less the Divine Order of Things.
But the oil cartel lady isn’t an object to be exploited or a toy to be played with. She’s a whiff of digital wind, a puff of smoke, a clear plastic bottle of gourmet outer space. The product of hundreds of millions of dollars spent on market research and development, she’s a platinum-plated Madison Avenue think tank chimera; a fabulous monster, a wholesome holistic hologram of Ole Ben’s timeless American wit paired with maternal sweetness and presented with the fair sex’s take on Corporate Charity. She’s blond but not too blond, simple and sincere, her creamy Anglo Saxon-Teutonic-Nordic skin blemish-free, youthful and pure, her business suit formal but not black, her aura androgynous, her shoes plain and practical. Tall and willowy one minute and short and muscular the next, she’s your wife, big sister, mother, grandmother, Earth Mother and Holy Mother. Always on the move, always focused, balanced, engaged, engaging, empathetic, emphatic and serene, her neutral voice tones bursting with subtle hints of earnestness and enthusiasm, her Queen’s English-techno apparatchik speak perfectly Global Market, she spreads the Good News while her bold assurances and reassurances land inside your memory as gently as rose petals alighting on perfumed bath water.
With your help, the oil cartel hologram lady is providing fuel for 1.9 million American jobs and more jobs everyday—good, productive, permanent jobs with limitless potential for advancement, enrichment and fulfillment. Along with legions of good Americans everywhere working together for the common good and our common destiny, she’s providing us with a “clean environment” and our children yet unborn with “a clean energy future” and the limitless Promise of Tomorrow as Our Business, Our Only Business. She’s “fueling our comfort” and “our way of life,” “prosperity,” “security” and “the building blocks of future medicine.” She lights our homes and churches and schools, warms our food and bellies, farms, pharmaceuticals and factories. The perfect embodiment of the glorious Miracle of Free Capital and God’s Invisible Hand of Justice, she’s The Economy, stupid, and so the Giver and Taker of All Things. The constant breaking news updates we get alerting us to the very latest minute fluctuations in the world’s stock, bond, currency and commodity markets, plus the very latest up-ticks and downticks in the Leading Economic Indicators are measures of the pulse of God, and the oil cartel hologram is His television face.
It’s her body language that gives her away. If you saw a creature moving like she does in a parking lot, or inside a shopping mall, you’d be struck dumb. Is she some poor suffering psychotic trapped by the opera music relentlessly grating between her ears? Is she dangerous? Should I run? Yet, cocooned within the magically glowing mindscapes of our electronic living room campfires, she’s transformed into a sweet Angel sent from High Heaven. Without our oil, she so graciously informs us, you people starve. God doesn’t want you to starve and, since we keep you alive, we’re with God. Crude oil is the Holy Water we sprinkle on our newborn babies, the exhaust, coal dust and petrochemicals they breathe from cradle to grave the refreshing breath of The Exalted One, the dying oceans the Sinai Desert they must cross.
I know, it’s all subliminal and, sure, what’s a web of lies when they’re serving a Higher Purpose? And, sure, the oil cartel lady is just one Icon in an ever changing menagerie of them —there’s Old Clean Coal, the Energy Czars, the Atom B. Nuclear twins, Inc., The Good Hands People, the Copper (“Need a Penny, take a penny”) Kings, Burger Barons, Taco Titans, Pentagon Princesses, etc., etc.—but still the oil cartel lady is the star and centerpiece of the most extensive and expensive propaganda campaign ever waged against the sound minds of the people in the whole history of the world. I think we should know it and chew on it and, there, now you know. So don’t be fooled. That way lays madness and ruin.