The Exploitation Cycle

I have seen the death of quality.

Why should writers, directors, or musicians care about quality, if there is a ready-made audience for crap? Just pastiche it together, make it wowie-zowie with SFX or be extreme, and your audience will gobble it up. Yes, some members in this audience are stupid or bored and will stuff ANYTHING inside themselves, only to find out it leaves them unsatisfied and so they repeat it over and over again. However, some people simply don’t know any better. These innocents are guarded by others, and the idea is that if you crack the shell, then you can exploit the tender insides. These guardians are called parents, and the exploited, children.

Parents – not all, but far too many – see children as simply portable blobs that need to be ceaselessly entertained, dropped off at the sitters, at the movies, given games, or sat down in front of a TV set. They have abdicated their role as arbiters of quality and value and as a result, the rest of the world has to wade through a sea of feces.

Ask yourself: would fans have funded the parody and the farce of Star Wars Ep 7 and 8? What about kid-friendly CCM? My soul boils within me. They are missing the point! Movies are not supposed to be pacifiers! Music is not about having seven-year olds singing along to your trite and vapid lyrics! They have discovered the secret that they can churn out meaningless and poor-quality material and children will gobble it up, because their parents will sit them down in front of anything just to get a moment’s peace.

This is just the tip of the iceberg of the failure of parenting and the furies it has unleashed upon the world.

But as the children who have been raised on crap grow up, they come to think of what they consume is and can only be crap, so they purchase it as adults and sit down their children in front of the same meaningless fare. And in a world where everyone gets a trophy for existence, and education teaches you nothing, then the exploitation cycle continues without pause, and only the mad raise a fist against the inhuman machinery.

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