"Instinct is something which transcends knowledge."
- Nikola Tesla
Imagine a television commercial along these lines: A waitress lays out a series of options for her customer, like fanning a deck of cards. What kind of pie, and do you want real whipped cream on it, or oil? Wait a second...OIL?
Great advertising, right? I mean, who in the world wants oil on their pie? What a grotesque idea, to smear oil—something squeezed right out of plants—who in their right mind can stomach such a proposition?
Of course, right about now, a hefty dairy cow should burst through the door and slam a hoof down on the diner counter. "Ask it right," the bovine invader demands.
"What do you mean?" the waitress queries, a hand at her breast, feigning innocence, or at least ignorance
"Ask this poor woman if she would prefer a product on her dessert that comes from squeezing plants, or if she thinks it might taste better if I were to squeeze some secretion from my utter! Go ahead, oh knowledgeable waitress, ask her!" the beefy inquisitor decrees.
The customer does a double take. "Huh? Wait a second, she didn't mention she was going to express some of your baby's milk for me. No way, hey, I want the plant oil, definitely."
The waitress leaps between the customer and the cow. "No way. Don't listen to this old cow. She has a brain about as large as mine. You DON'T want oil on your pie, you want real whipped cream, that's the line, and that's the way you are going to read it."
The cow places a hoof on the waitress' shoulder and gives a very deliberate, nudge of provocation.
"You are not a real waitress, are you?" the cow says, with that particular sneer cows have when they have a big wad of cud in their teeth.
"Of course I am not a waitress, I only play one on TV, and that's better, ain't it? What, do you think I'm stupid or something?" the alleged actress spits.
The cow wipes waitress spittle from her chin, and now openly smiling says: "Now that you ask, why no, I don't think you're a waitress...or stupid. What I think you are is a paid liar. You, my dear, are a deceiver, pure and simple (not that there is anything pure of simple about being a deceiver)."
"Fact is, cow, real whipped cream is better than plant oil. Everyone knows that!"
The cow hefts her ponderous utter in her hoof and aims a long teet at the actress pretending to be a helpful, knowledgeable waitress. "You sure about that, honey? Here, why not try a sample of this real whipped cream!"
A thick, gooey jet of beige liquid arcs across the studio set and splats across the actor's face. It is heavy and viscous, this dredge, this oily liquid.
"Knock it off! That stuff is terrible! That ain't real whipped cream!" the actor shrieks, mopping at her face and running make-up with her tear-away uniform.
"Oh, it is real, all right, but it sure ain't natural. Do you know how much antibiotics they inject into me? Do you know the horrid grain they feed me? My body needs grass, and they feed me heavy corn laced with antibiotics and animal parts. That's what makes up what you so authoritatively call real whipped cream," the cow says, hooves on pronounced hips.
"Oh you are such a leftist, you're such a liberal," the actor snaps back, "save the earth, animal rights, welfare state, it's people like you that are ruining this world. Oh right, bless the beasts and the children."
"Sorry honey, but I'm none of those things. I'm a cow," she says, simply.
"Yeah, you sure are. Cow! Just shut up, and get out. You are a cow, you were made so we can drink your milk, and you only exist so we can eat you when you are too old to produce any more real whipped cream, so get off this set. You have no voice. You have no rights."
It would probably make for a far more interesting commercial.
Then there is the equally insulting commercial wherein a sweet-looking farmer's daughter strolls through the health, wind-whipped corn, assuring us that high-fructose corn syrup is really very good for us, in fact, as sugars go, your body just simply can't tell the difference between high-fructose corn syrup, and white, bleached, highly processed sugar that has had all its nutritional value removed.
That is pretty close to stating that your body can't tell the difference between getting run over by a Greyhound bus or a military tank. Think about it.
What the helpful farmer's daughter ain't being quite up-front about is the fact that high-definition brain scans prove that high-fructose corn syrup does not send a satiety message to the brain, as does sugar. There is no feeling of fullness, or satisfaction, or the warning klaxon that "this is just way too much!"
You eat a certain amount of sugar, and your brain screams: "Okay already, knock it off!"
With high-fructose corn syrup, you become addicted to the ever-present sweetness, and your body demands more and more of it, trying to receive that chemical message in the brain that "this is enough." Studies show that high-fructose corn syrup is one of—if not the leading cause of mounting obesity rates all over the planet.
The helpful, sweet farmer's daughter should conclude with: "Kill yourself with sugar, or kill yourself with high-fructose corn syrup, hey, what's the difference? Your body doesn't know the difference. You're dead either way. You are dead."
But maybe that is the clue. The television advertisers seem to be shooting their videos for zombies, not thinking, intelligent people. What does it matter, your body can't tell the difference between those who tell the truth, and those that want to suck first all your money out of your wallet, and second, all the life out of your body.
Because let's face it, zombies are just plain ole fun. You thought those were actors in those movies? No, those are the actual zombies that our society is creating, the zombies that painfully moan: "Real whipped cream! High-fructose corn syrup! Brains!"
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