How can hackers know our passwords just like that, when we can’t even remember them? Even one to get onto a computer that we ourselves set up? How can modern humans cope with password anxiety, the rational, disturbing present and future assurance that we will forgot at least one of the most important passwords to our ridiculous on-line lives, and soon.
Passwords have metastasized. The average semi-comatose nobody has to remember, on average, SkateyEighty passwords that constantly are getting change orders from some imperious Password Command Change Center. OK, it’s more like 37-forgot password emails per inbox – link here, for you completist types: https://blog.dashlane.com/infographic-online-overload-its-worse-than-you-thought/.
No, the “hints” solution devised by the tech saboteurs of the psyche don’t work. Here’s one hint, to the aforementioned computer access that stores one person’s entire files and photos and typing whizbangeries: “Patriots.” What idiot wrote that? That answers nothing. Every combination of “Patriots” numbers and lower-case upper-case abbreviated spy code, fail miserably to get the computer to release its closely-held secrets. The idiot in question was sufficiently cowed by the necessity to shroud the password in obscure reference, since the word “password” itself denotes the inability of the basic knuckle-dragging cyber or -family-thief to guess via the hint what the stupid password is.
Yet this little consumer assault on sanity is nothing compared to the advertising metastasis (that cancer word is itself metastasizing, and in need of an upgrade) that surrounds the commuting drone-person. For some odd reason of utter failure of social control, a commuter, when gassing up, is presented with a small TV screen that flickers some Orwellian sequence of info-advertising melange, for all of about the 49 seconds it takes to spray that carbon juice into the small car. Is that enough time for the constantly-assaulted unconscious brain to subliminally register some encoded purchasing preference? In FSN’s case, the gas pump screens have delivered mostly sports info-babble, with a gesticulating tinyman blubbering about some heinous bureaucratic offense by some slavery-sports committee. None of the surrounding advertising seemed to register in the slightest, but only the unconscious knows. FSN is unaware if a hidden beef-jerky fetish will emerge from the its tele-driven unconscious due to a gas-station micro-ad, but what other reason, besides consumer manipulation, is there for this high tech, expensive colonization of semi-private space?
Alternatively, is the commuting nobody supposed to post-associate the particular gas station with Jetsons level, Worlds-Fair-kind consumer bewonderment, and henceforth be mesmerizingly drawn, against his or her conscious low gas-price chasing self, to the one local convenience station that has the irresistible draw of short down-time tele-watching? As in the invaded brain now formulating, You know, I could save 46 cents at Purity Supreme Gas’nGo, but damn, I could be missing some essential heads-up sports-commentary about March Madness from my favorite tinyman?
The main problem is that no one is in charge of restraining corporate capitalists. There is simply no end to their diabolical machinations to get inside our hopeless brains. An immediate problem to the gas-station screen invasion is that thousands of dazed, entranced commuters have sat there, gas pump in had, drooling with bestial entrancement at babble spewage from the micro-screen while the gas gushes out on their shoes. Emergency room visits from this condition are not covered under the Paul Ryan Express Unaffordable Care Act to Advance Armageddon, however.
Nothing exists in our supersystem to stop these predators. Surely science fiction realms have anticipated what is next, but there is no doubt that soon the intra-cranial stage will be set forth, when a nano-chip, slyly inserted into each of unsuspecting brains, will receive and broadcast ad signals, while we are awake, and especially, while we consumo-dream. Look at the horrific Burger King ad campaign now attacking the poor American homeheartland – that creepy, mute, bejeweled monarch of stealth and stalker hatred is again 24-7 on our screens. He says nothing, does nothing, but creep and stalk and stand there, a fat, stupid, predator Big Headed Monster, an adult Slenderman for our fraught world. Please, O torturing Corporate Overlords, make it stop, make it all stop, before we are locked out of our worlds forever.