Revolution (27 page)

The magazine observes that a corporation is like an immortal being, a god—“corporation” means “body”—but a dispassionate, unloving god, untethered from the earth, with only one obligation: to make money. That is its function.

When they were first set up, corporations had built-in expiry, as they were only designed to fulfill a specific task, like pave a road or build a tobacconist. They then lobbied for the right to exist beyond the completion of specific tasks; this is when they began to incorporate other roles and grow.

A corporation’s role as a “profit maximizer” for its owners is similar to the dispassionate description of Homo sapiens—that’s you and me and our mums—as “utility maximizers.” Creatures that care only about what’s useful. That’s a bloody inaccurate description of my mum. She wastes about 90 percent of her time faffing around after her dog, a total prick by the name of Bobby that I, to my shame, bought her.

He is a vicious little canine jihadist, once described as a “fluffy piranha.” Any utility that he’s providing is a mystery to me. I think he’s a punk.

Corporations haven’t been around that long, only a couple of hundred years, and I think one of the problems we have in our hypnotized state of despondency is that we forget that we are not listless little subjects but glorious creatures that can imagine new lives for ourselves. Succinctly, all we have to do to rid ourselves of a problem like corporate tyranny is to imagine doing it, then do it. As dear, beautiful, morally unimpeachable Che Guevara said, “Those who do not dream will never see their dreams come true.”

Sadly, I think that it is also a lyric of that song “Talky Talky
Happy Talk Talk,” but I’m pretty sure Che was first and certain that if the creators of the song quibbled, he would shoot them with a Kalashnikov without knocking the ash off his cigar.

Corporate charters weren’t put together by legislators but by judges. I suppose that means they were not established in conjunction with the constitution and that’s how come they’re such devil-may-care gadabouts.

Prior to the 1890s, as
Adbusters
explained, corporations had a clear role and a definite period within which to fulfill it. I suppose that meant they could never swell into giant society-guzzling ogres. Even if they did, it wouldn’t matter; they’d just complete their project, build a sewer or a dam, then disband.

But in the 1890s all that changed, because judges, presumably in wigs and capes, decreed that the “limited” lifespan of a corporation could be discarded. I once chatted to a judge that as a using addict had injected himself with heroin, under his robes, whilst sentencing people to harsh prison time for—drumroll, please—using drugs. So we can’t take them too seriously. In fact, all those places where they bang little wooden hammers and have flags and crests and shout, “Order, order,” are in my view trying a bit too hard to seem serious. Have a bit of faith in yourselves. If what you’re doing is patently not bollocks, you won’t feel the need to whip out Bibles and dress up like old-lady pirates.

With the abolition of these limitations, a company that was created to spend four years building a bridge was no longer euthanized but allowed to live forever—and to pursue any kind of moneymaking venture that it fancied, like Donald Trump with a trolley full of spare kidneys and livers. Note I didn’t put spare hearts, as I was thinking about doing a joke like “He doesn’t even have a heart to begin with,” then I thought, “Nah, fuck it, Russ, you’re a professional comedian and don’t need to flounder around with that kind of ‘earnest’ joke, which has stymied the left since the sixties.” Once in a while you’ll get a George Carlin or Bill Hicks or whatever, but for some reason changing the world is assumed to be a serious business and exempted from humor. John Cleese says that’s because
people mistake solemnity for seriousness, that by being all stern and joyless their ideas are somehow levitated.

Ol’ Radhanath Swami once told me a story from the Bhagavad Gita about Krishna as a boy that exemplifies the necessity for lightness and joy when confronting dark power.

As is often the case in mythical tales, a village was besieged by the mischief and evil perpetrated by a tyrannical and wicked serpent.

This serpent was a real arsehole and was living in the lake where the villagers got all their water. He had multiple heads—that means he was a hydra, a many-headed monster—and he had a few wives too. Oddly they are depicted as human and, if you don’t mind my saying so, quite fit. When I saw them, in the form of a statue depicting the event, I was peeved that this venomous troublemaker got to live in his lake with such top-notch crumpet. To say nothing of the fact that there were two of them. In the proper version of the story, when told by a monk (to me in my garden), this aspect of the tale is skimmed over. “He lived in a lake with his two wives and—”

“Wait up, mate. Two wives? Don’t they argue? Does he do it with ’em both at the same time? Do they do stuff to each other?”

The polygamous private relationships of the antagonist were of more interest to me than the fact that he was a many-headed, evil lake snake in a story about how to live in alignment with God.

Eventually, after I’d perved for a good while on what ought to have been a secondary detail, I allowed the embarrassed swami to continue. The villagers were all ill, some were dying, and morale was at an all-time low because of this infected water and, for all I know, because the fiend behind this cruelty was living
la vida loca
down there with his Doublemint double-your-pleasure twin brides. So they turned to Krishna, who, although just a kid at the time, was as “the Supreme Godhead” already the go- to guy in such matters. Krishna is an all-loving deity, supremely powerful, who plays all reality into being with his flute. That could be a way of saying he is the divine source of original vibration, which is the same as saying, “In the beginning was the word,” or from “nothingness” came a big bang or a powerful creative sound.

I’ve always liked Krishna as a god, because he’s jolly, dresses cool, and hangs round in fields and forests with fit women and animals; plus, he’s blue.

The villagers ask for Krishna’s assistance in dealing with the scaly bigamist at the bottom of their reservoir, and he of course agrees. He swoops over the lake, playing his pipe and goading the serpent like Muhammad Ali. The serpent, rowdy and easily wound up, comes smashing through the surface of the water like a beanstalk, all fangs and fury. Krishna stays cool.

He is the avatar of absolute power, so that must take a lot of the pressure off him in situations where mortal combat is involved. Anyone who’s ever developed a movie script will know that your protagonist’s vulnerability is vital for “jeopardy,” or there are no “stakes.” Like Superman has to have Kryptonite or we know that he’s invincible and don’t worry when General Zod says he’s going to give him a good kicking.

Jesus as protagonist in the Gospels is good because, like Superman, he’s been sent from another dimension; like Superman, he’s decided to dedicate himself to saving humanity; and, like Superman, he’s got special powers: heal the sick, walk on water, food multiplication. His vulnerability is that he is part man and as such can be speared, mocked, nailed up, and, at least carnally, sacrificed.

Krishna, we always suspect, will be okay, because his defining attribute is omnipotence. Perhaps that’s why in this tale he is depicted as a child, only partially formed.

The fuming amphibian ensnares Krishna and coils about him, squeezing the god as if prey. The onlooking villagers gasp with fear and presumably guilt, as it was them that put him in this quandary, whilst the serpent’s wives cheer him on like molls or Essex girlfriends in a car-park row: “Go on, Dean, kick his head in.”

Krishna, of course, is untroubled by this attack. Where most would be asphyxiated—one of the worst ways to die, I’ll bet; I was once choked by a big Scotch bouncer and it was fucking awful; all my bravado leaked out of me and I squawked esophageal apologies like a repentant tracheotomy patient—Krishna instead, using his secret
and plot-ruining weapon, omnipotence, slims himself down to the size of a panatela cigar, slinks out, and leaps onto one of the serpent’s heads.

He then resumes his normal size and begins to dance a jaunty, spry, and by all accounts powerful jig across the villain’s brow. As Krishna plays his pipe and dances, the serpent becomes at first bewildered, then weakened, and eventually despairing. Krishna’s gentle but potent dance is killing the beast.

Crucially, at no point does Krishna seem agitated; he does the whole thing in a spirit of great fun, as if there were no consequences, nothing to worry about at all. The serpent flails and spasms and droops, hopelessly spewing his venom. Evidently Krishna is enjoying himself so much that he scarcely even notices; he’s completely in the moment. Eventually the serpent’s wives—let’s call them Carol and Sue—participate in the story in a meaningful way by begging Krishna to show mercy.

Krishna, who, let’s face it, is a damn fine fellow and the source of all wonder and heavenly glory, agrees. The subjugated and battered snake has been irreversibly changed by the encounter. Far from seeing his pummeling as a humiliation, he has been converted by Krishna’s grace and says he’ll be no more bother and, if memory serves, continues to live in the lake but in a more community-spirited capacity, like a lifeguard. I don’t know if he kept his wives.

The point of the story is Krishna’s joy—that he doesn’t become the thing he’s trying to defeat. He, on his own terms, thwarts the monster and creates love from hatred.

I’m sure there are other analyses that could be drawn—for example, we could regard the snake and its many heads as a kind of corporation, one body, many faces, polluting the common good for its own selfish needs. I don’t know where the polygamy fits in. I know, though, that the manner in which these institutions are overthrown should be in themselves a defiance of their dogma and that the systems that follow cannot be an echo of their droning hypnosis.

When corporations were first established, people objected, as
these new entities had the same rights as a citizen but were immune to human controls—you can’t imprison or execute a wayward corporation. They’re like evil lake snakes.

Adbusters
proposes a return to the earlier corporate incarnation: entities with a limited function, which expire at the completion of that function. This would mean a completely different cultural and economic landscape; corporations and brands would be relegated to a functional position in society, where they serve us instead of dominating us.

As a means to reach this improved version of the corporation, and to show we’re serious,
Adbusters
suggests as a symbol the killing of a corporation. Make them subject to the forces that control humanity. However great and powerful we become, however mean we are, in the end along comes death, all nonchalant in his hoodie with his long-handled dagger, and levels the playing field right out.

Much of the irresponsible and destructive behavior engaged in by corporations is likely because they are never punished. No corporation has ever been killed. It doesn’t matter how much they pollute, lie, steal, or even when they murder their customers; the consequences are minor. I agree with
Adbusters
: It’s time to kill a corporation.

They suggest a bunch, including General Motors. General Motors, as the name suggests, are generally speaking interested in producing automobiles. Perhaps they are being a bit too general and should be a bit more specific. Perhaps it is this somewhat vague and blasé approach that led to one of the more notorious crimes in their history. Put briefly, they accidentally made an ignition that shut down and killed people, installed it in one of their cars, and then sold loads of them.

Some people died as a result, and their families, disappointed by the loss of their loved ones, complained. GM, of course, apologized—they’re not monsters—but then had a conundrum on their hands. Should they recall all the vehicles that had the faulty, murderous ignition—which would be pricey if you value economic cost more highly than the cost of the loss of life to a family?

GM do. They have to. They’re designed to. They are legally obligated
to make as much money as possible; that means in a situation where human life is weighed up against a fiduciary deficit, there will be blood. In a way, the allegorical device of a man-made machine that goes wrong and kills people is too on the nose to be helpful. Twelve more people died; GM effectively did nothing.

Now, let me remind you: This is your planet; you can change it if you want to. You can change it by doing loads of drugs, or by having it off with loads of women, or by going on a murderous rampage with a licensed weapon. Doesn’t it make more sense, though, to change it by binding together with your fellow man and working to create a society that’s fair and just? Of course it does. Let’s kill General Motors. Let’s take it back from its shareholders, scribble out the name and the logo, and use its resources for something more valuable.

In his excellent first film,
Roger & Me
, Michael Moore explains how GM used to employ loads of people where he’s from, in Flint, Michigan. His dad and a load of his uncles worked there and it was all cool; people were doing fine. Then, when GM discovered it would be more profitable to move their production to Mexico and fuck off the town and all the loyal workers that’d toiled away their lives at the plant, they barely paused to say, “Ay, caramba,” if you can tolerate a little racism.

They had to; they are an entity designed to make profit at all costs. They’re a bit like the Terminator in the film
The Terminator
. Terminator, as his name suggests, is a robot designed to terminate people. It’s no good getting all cross if you leave him to look after your rabbit when you go on holiday and come home to discover he’s terminated it; that’s his job. You should’ve asked a neighbor.

So we should say to GM, “Right, this company of yours, you’ve had some good innings, but, frankly, we’re upset about the pollution, the disloyalty, and, not to put too fine a point on it, the killings, so we’re shutting you down. You don’t have a GM anymore; there is no GM anymore. Stop crying; you should’ve thought of that when you didn’t recall those faulty units because you calculated it’d be cheaper to compensate the victims than tarnish the brand.”