Other
than the fact that this sounds like an urban legend (that’s what we used to
call conspiracy theories when I was a kid,) I don’t doubt it’s true. Spy
cameras in wet/dry vacs? Sure. You should read about what was done during the
cold war. What can we possibly do with this technology, other than annoy
people? We’ve got petabyte databases in NSA secure sites in Nevada. That’s where
we keep our petafiles, I suppose. Cell phone metadata. Traffic cams. Selfies.
Anonymous selfies. Anonymous selfies in the shower. More data on every square
inch of the world than we can ever possibly analyze. Hell, we’ve still got
racks of tapes from the 50’s and 60’s of space missions that we haven’t analyzed,
some of which are now unreadable, rendering the data lost right there in their
secured racks and under our bewildered noses. We have texts from around the
world that we can’t interpret. Maya scrolls, the few that survived the fiery
Padre’s purges. The Antikythera device. The entire civilization of Harappa. There
are more things in heaven and earth…
So,
what are we supposed to do now that we are flush with gargantuabytes of
information on every man, woman, child, and toilet bowl cleanup in America? Nothing,
of course. Like all data, it has to be analyzed, interpreted, cross referenced,
and accounted for. ‘Cleaned up’ we used to call it in the industry. So, no. Big
Brother is not here yet. Or maybe only as a metaphor. A bad joke with us as the
punchline. Misdirection from the real point, as is all politics. A scarecrow
that is only meant to put a fire under our visceral brain stems and scuttle us
back into submissive behavior like the good little interchangeable parts in the
colossus of civilization that we are.
Wouldn’t
storm troopers be cheaper?
I
can see a back lash. An underground. A movement of epic proportions. So. Take a
page from Saul Alinsky. Run out tomorrow and buy several bottles of black nail
polish. Inspect every trash compactor and AI possessed toilet you see looking
for the tell-tale sign. Some innocent looking circle somewhere strategically
placed on the periphery of the bowl or tank or bladder of some disgusting household
plunger or other that every house has but ignores. That’s the perfect spy! That
hot water bottle in the closet, complete with enema attachment? It’s watching
you!
When
you locate an innocuous looking circle somewhere on the strategic surface of
your suspected spy, see if there is a glass bead in the center. That’s not
decorative. That’s the lens, not art. And the little pin pricks around it? Microphones.
No need to shout. What the hell is art doing on something that cleans up shit?
Place a generous dollop of nail polish all over the glass bead and let it soak
into the pricks. You probably did nothing other than to suppress art, but it feels
good to give it to the man, anyway. And you may have just saved some poor soul
an embarrassment.
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