Capitalism is like a Cheeto — highly processed, dependent upon a great amount of low-paying labor, tasty but without nourishment, leaving a Lady Macbeth-like residue upon the fingers of each snacking participant. It's that interesting excess, the stain of its lingering remains, that's perhaps most interesting about the metaphor. Something is left over after each transaction, a fine dust of profit and discomfort. It's a bit of reality after indulging in the fantasy; the food particules seem to ask, 'Where did these Cheetos come from? How much gas was burned to deliver them to your mouth? Who profited off of them? Who actually made them, how much were they paid for their labor, and how are they doing?'
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