AROUND MY HOUSE, we have always counted ourselves happy little capitalists. Sure, we pay plenty of lip service to the eternal verities of God and freedom and high, democratic ideals. But in our dark consumerist hearts, we believe that if we are to truly shine our light upon the Second and Third worlds, to elevate their spirits and subjugate their wills, we must peddle our goods and services to them–our clothes, our entertainment, our fast food.
While I don’t pretend to have mastered the diplomatic complexities of the Middle East, I do know that if we’d simply treat Palestinian encampments like giant American food courts, in which friendly Chick-fil-A attendants walked around with trays full of toothpicked samples, the bloodshed would end. Nothing says, “Put the explosives down, Mustafa,” like an inviting platter of all-white-meat chicken.
