Human Animal Farm: A Fairy Story

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Way back in the annals of ancient history, my baby-boomer high school English Class was busy reading George Orwell’s “Animal Farm”.  A common assignment in those days, likely because it mirrored the author’s hatred of Communism, and constituted an important part of the “Better Dead than Red” curriculum and The American Empire’s young, impressionable mind indoctrination agenda of that period.  Indeed highly successful, for I recall that being called a Commie was an equal insult to one of the guys bragging that he’d been boinking your mom or sister.

The original title was “Animal Farm:  A Fairy Story”, and it certainly was an unlikely scenario.  Although I have a vague recollection of the anti-Communist aspect of the tale, it was largely lost on me.  Rather, the possibility of farm animals pulling off a successful revolution against their abusive owners seemed just too wild to comprehend.  A true fairy story.  After all, aren’t pigs, cows, sheep, chickens, and turkeys just brainless, walking, breathing meat, with no other purpose in their miserable lives but to sacrifice their flesh to the voracious human masses?  They have no sense of purpose, no comprehension of their captivity and meaningless existence on death row.  No hopes, no dreams, no passions, or desires.  Lesser creatures, and ours to use, abuse, manipulate, rape, murder, and masticate


If the guards and executioners at Cargill would carelessly leave the gates open, how many captive bovines would hoof it outa there and head for freedom on the horizon?  Do pigs crammed into the Smithfield pens dream of rooting around freely in the forests of their imaginations?  How often do any of Tyson’s billions of chickens look fondly at their eggs, with high hopes of bright futures for their progeny?  Sadly, the answers are that the captive masses are comfortably numb, and can’t see beyond their next meals, have grown to love and embrace their shelters from storms, and are unable to imagine a world where they aren’t crammed together with their brethren, wallowing in their own filth.  Each day dawns, and they remain unaware that their keepers are also their executioners, that they’re being fattened for the kill, and that they were born for no other reason than to die and be harvested.  Fences, pens, and walls define the only world they’ll ever know or imagine.
I generally despise inky epidermal graffiti, but my imaginary tattoo would be “U.S.D.A. Prime”, etched facetiously in block letters on my ass.  For I belong to a small, widely scattered, and largely unorganized club of human anomalies.  Wired a bit differently, we understand and abhor our captivity.  We comprehend our assigned places on the food chain, and awaken each morning painfully aware of the birth certificates, immigration laws, walls, and armed border patrol guards which contain us.  We refuse to define ourselves by the geographical location of our births, by the languages we’ve been taught to speak, by the Social Security Cards, driver’s licenses, and passports we’re required to possess.  We don’t salute flags, nor get lumps in our throats when national anthems are played.  We understand that we’re nothing more than resources to be harvested by our overlords who live in the shadows.  We’ve swallowed the red pill and there’s no going back.  Egalitarians, internationalists, revolutionists, socialists, Commies, anarchists, and malcontents, we awaken each morning to the same quandary.  How in hell can we stop this runaway train?  What’s it going to take for the minions of clueless occupants of the Human Animal Farm, which certainly includes but is not limited to the U.S.A., to become aware of their captivity?  To understand their own slavery?  To become pissed off enough to realize that nobody anywhere has the right to own and control them?  What will it take to inspire them to cast off their chains?  To dare to dream and to fly?

But alas, an overwhelming majority of our fellow human captives unwittingly embrace their chains, have no comprehension of their captivity and meaningless existence, and are unable to imagine a world where they aren’t crammed together shoulder to shoulder with their brethren, wallowing in industrial filth, walking the treadmill under the whip.  On death row with minimal hopes, diminished dreams, paltry passions, dreary desires.  Lesser creatures for their overlords to use, abuse, manipulate, rape, and discard into early graves.

Sleepwalkers through the American Dream.  A mass awakening would reveal that we’re all nothing more than Wyoming Senator Alan Simpson’s “lesser people”.  So many human farm animals.  Bleating, mooing, clucking, oinking our culturally induced aspirations and dreaming of potential possessions:  White picket fence, White collar Wall Street job, White diamond, White wedding, White BMW, 2.5 White (or pick a color) rugrats, a 30-year mortgage and a ticket to Heaven, all fully-insured and guaranteed by Progressive Insurance and Religion, Inc.  Five percent of the world’s population consuming 25% of the resources thanks largely to the never-ending wars for profit agenda and a population of brainwashed, obedient, and mostly well-fed slaves who make it possible.  Five percent of the world’s population with 25% of its incarcerated human livestock filling prisons for profit to overflowing.

But alas, we human animal resources do have an advantage over our four-legged and feathered counterparts who occupy corporate feedlots and provide us with the nutrition to live long, productive lives.  As least we’re not slaughtered, dismembered, and consumed outright.  We are, however, milked of our strength, youth, and vitality, and when all utility is diminished…when old age steps in, turning us all into potential liabilities…our swan song is sung in duet with the healthcare/pharmaceutical industry.  Why seek cures for the myriad of diseases which stalk us into our twilight years when there’s so much profit to be made in the treatment?  When lifetimes of breathing and consuming the poisons of industrialization leave our broken shells the gifts of ALS, Alzheimer’s, Lewy body, Diabetes, heart disease, cancer, or stroke, we’re turned over to an army of “doctors”, who’ve been groomed, trained, bought and paid for by the pharmaceutical industry.

Admittedly, I turn seventy in a few weeks, and have become somewhat bitter about the likelihood that my final hours will likely help grease the wheels of Pfizer and Eli Lilly, and build more hospitals and crematoriums to facilitate the final processing of this battered bag of bones and meat.   I just completed extensive research, and found that there are a humungous shitload of pharmaceutical companies with obscene profits in the gazillions.  Meantime, research into disease prevention and that ugly four-letter word (cure) are piss poor to damn near nonexistent.


The Human Animal Farm has become all too familiar and comfortable for the vast majority of its occupants, who have little or no comprehension of their captivity.  Noses to the grindstone, day by day, inch by inching their way toward one final and profitable hurrah of capitalist plunder, then into the furnaces for proper cremation and disposal.  And what are the chances that they’ll awaken, rise up, rout out their overlord farmers, and take over the farm?  Why rock the boat when you’re getting fed and sheltered?  What kind of miracle is it going to take to inspire our fellow captives to understand and become pissed off about their captivity?  If I really wanted to make some money, I’d bet against it ever happening because “The Human Animal Farm”, or the imaginary sequel to George Orwell’s “Animal Farm”, like the original is…extremely likely and very unfortunately…A Fairy Story.

Besides, like our animal brethren, if we human animals ever managed to pull off a revolt, when the dust cleared we’d most certainly fuck it up.  But don’t ever give up, and never, never listen to bitter, pessimistic, ranting old men!  Hasta la victoria siempre!

 


About the Author
JOHN R. HALL, Senior Contributing Editor,  is a street-trained agnotologist with an advanced degree in American Ignorance.  Meanderer, dreamer, mountaineer, restaurateur, military draft refusing felon, wannabe revolutionary, and citizen of Earth, observes the circus of life, and writes from wherever the north winds blow him.  He can most likely be found somewhere in The Hawaiian Island Chain, in Mexico’s Corazon, in The Sonoran Desert of Arizona, The Mohave Desert of Nevada, The high deserts of New Mexico, on a Teton glacier in Northwest Wyoming…or at halls245@msn.com  

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