You can't flip something off with just an index finger

American Apparel's costume suggestion for one's children.  (Not even worth going into the total confused blur of synechdoche for the missing, diffuse "thing" in question: graffiti, throwing the horns, glam pants, looking like your parents never really did and but now really do when they buy the slightly larger same clothes from the same store for an 80's themed party, Proudhon.)

Of course, what makes it unfathomably terrible is its basic fathomability.  That sputter, fizzling hush of a computer-simulated thin tip hissing out its last pixels.  A death rattle for the prospect that cultural critique, like the meme-hungry it would like to mock, can do more than just be deictic.  Than just point, with the same glacial urgency, with the slimmest gap between loving and loathing, and, with the breaths it does and will keep drawing straight through any and all phase of capitalism, glumly mutter see this... see this... this... this... this

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