What do you do when your physical form is made up predominantly of a volume of liquid? A liquid which is readily available elsewhere but manifest in your case within your corporeal form? And what to do if your very purpose in life is undermined by a sneaking suspicion that you exist purely for the sake of consumption? Not only that, but that this consumption involves a literal hollowing-out of your being, your soul, the essence of who you are and all that you could be?

The answer to this is one and the same for both an anthropomorphic and inexplicably sapient carton of milk, and any human being: one can only despair.

And so with that framework in place, we can begin to understand the true nature of The Most Loveable Milk Carton To Ever Exist. Milky. That’s its name; Milky. Don’t ask me why; I can’t work it out. There must be some kind of hyper-sophisticated metaphorical link there and clearly an enormous amount of thought went into it because it can’t just be that simple, can it?

Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy

I put it to you this way: Milky puts on a happy face, most of the time, but Milky is not a happy person. Forget for a moment that Milky is not a person but a conceptual artifice and—at least in the universe we inhabit—a practical impossibility. But… assuming that we do grant Milky a degree of personhood, Milky is not—and can not—be happy.

How can we know this?

Milky is surrounded by depressive, violent and vain people. Almost every person Milky interacts with ignores or looks down upon them, as though they are insignificant, impotent, or merely nonexistent. They are frequently threatened with some kind of violent action. Milky’s very existence is a never-ending, machine-gun repetition of aggressions and traumas.

Milky’s very understandable response to this is a classic form of coping mechanism: the suppression of their own needs in the hope that meeting the needs of others will allow them to survive and maybe—just maybe—one day they will deserve the love of another. Yet, the dominant symptom of this particular psychological schema is a lurking fear of reprisal. Which, combined with relentless self-sabotage and the inherent selfishness of others, means that Milky will more likely continue to be taken for granted than actually become, genuinely, loved.

Milky begins by taking the path of least resistance—the default action for any sapient being—which our view of their world suggests is the attempt to solve someone else’s problem by seeking out the person depicted in their tattoo. Is it even a tattoo? It it a birth mark? Who knows? Either way, it bears a strange resemblance to a long-forgotten musician called Graham Coxon, whose commitment to the unkempt ‘90s style tuft-cut is matched only by his rigour for upholding a rigid ‘90s style guitar-strum. He is an icon of a different era.

If this seems anachronistic to younger, cooler readers, that’s because it is. This is a kind of cool you people could only dream of. In the age of global warming it should go without saying that this level of cool is positively arctic compared to our contemporaneous zeitgeist. Let’s also just say that other icons of adjacent ages—the perm, the mutton chop, the pant flare, and the leg-warmer—have not fared quite so well.

Yet Milky displays none of these qualities. Milky is completely naked; exposed to the world and its harshness with nary a thread of protection. In this present moment of viral anxiety, the danger of such exposure should not require reiteration. It is tempting in these times to turn such things into a different kind of metaphor.

This vulnerability becomes evident by the distress Milky displays in the face of the disappointment and existential dread espoused by the overbearing bourgeois overlords who control Milky’s entire world. This situation should be self-evident simply by a brief examination of the opening scene. The colourless, drab form of the pyjamas worn by the home-owning Boomer retiree—icon of said bourgeois if there ever was one—is just as suggestive of the entire household’s inelegant and vapid existence as the equally shapeless and derivative artwork spaced incongruously across the otherwise blank walls.

Even the mounted picture of the scion and presumptive heir to this unimaginative prison is two-dimensional and lifeless. The figure in the image could not even bring themselves to smile properly under such duress. An understandable response. Perhaps, like the world of early 2020, they have been locked inside for too long? Perhaps a lifetime—their own lifetime—of Thatcherite economic and social oppression has drained them of any hope for the future?

Whatever its genesis, this very same image has been cruelly replicated upon the bodily form of the family’s brutally objectified labour-slave, Milky. Not unlike the branding of cattle in a field or, post-processing, in its reincarnation as a Gucci handbag.

You see, Milky is constructed as a mere article of consumption, with no ostensible identity of their own. Milky is a slave. A slave of consumerism, a slave of capitalism, a slave of their own inability to seek a meaningful existence outside of the state of control which inhibits their selfhood. The rest of the bourgeois household are basically in the same state, except you just replace “of” with “to”.

Choose Your Own Adventure, Milky

The entire family depicted in Milky’s world are depressive to the point of having almost entirely surrendered to the limitless null of their pointless material existence. This is surely evidence enough to suggest that Milky has but two choices in this awful scenario.

First, the active choice. Abandon the family altogether, condemn them to a continued bleeding-out of their already anaemic spiritual selves, presumably resulting in their perishing either physically or simply succumbing to despair.

Or, secondly, the passive choice. Milky could surrender their own needs and selfhood in order to act as a proxy for the family’s last vestiges of hope. Being the dutiful functionary that they are, Milky might then enact the responsibilities of their masters on their behalf. In the true spirit of the entitled, should the serf obtain the relief the master so desires, any success in that endeavour shall no doubt be appropriated as their superiors’ own success. They chose the right slave!

Milky’s initial performative efforts, predictably, have no effect on the stupefied family. So Milky departs, to do what their listless masters cannot bring themselves to do: make a bit of an effort to find this mysterious ‘90s dork. In pursuing this pointless quest, Milky crosses the Campbellian “threshold” and becomes exposed to a sequence of human reactions.

Milky is immediately threatened by a woman with a whipper-snipper, who acknowledges Milky by wielding the tool as a weapon, ruthlessly defending her property as any feudal lord might rightly do. A modern inversion of the concept of swords to ploughshares. Incidentally, is there not a more iconic example of bourgeois luxury? Replacing the quiet labour of lawn trimming with an obnoxiously loud, fuel-consuming combustion engined machine second only to the leaf blower in consumptive excess? I’ll leave that to you, dear reader, to decide.

Fleeing for safety, Milky finds themselves at the mercy of a motorcyclist, a figure whose status as renegade is reflected by obscured features (they could be anyone). A rare act of kindness is shown by this outcast as Milky is given a ride into town. No doubt the other capitalists would have this man shot if he were discovered behaving in such a disgusting socialist manner. The fact that he did not charge Milky rent or acquire his cheap labour in accordance with its proper market value for this provision of service is simply unconscionable.

Cast into the urban world, Milky briefly engages with a pair of reprobate youths who also disgracefully offer directions without any kind of reciprocal economic exchange. Note that there is a lot of effort taken to show them in very close proximity. Is socialism itself like some kind of wicked contagion? Is that the secret message here? It is possible, however unlikely, that living in isolation has endowed a very slight oversensitivity in this regard, so we shall overlook that possibility for now.

The emotional sleight-of-hand which temporarily dallied in the feel-good, snowflake world of not-capitalism is swiftly reversed, revealing a righting of the proper order. Milky is brutally reminded of their appropriate place. The natural apex of any hierarchical capitalist society (the white male) casually consumes a literal doppelgänger of Milky. Let’s not forget to note the egregious waste of Milky-by-proxy’s internal viscera left to dribble down the side of the man’s mouth as he wolfs down his meal like one might consume, say, a good rare steak. There’s definitely no metaphorical parallels to be drawn about animals and their “purpose” here, so let’s move on.

Frightened by this harsh reminder of reality, Milky is chased by the only creature still capable of “seeing” them as a legitimate being worthy of personhood: a small child not yet accustomed to the cultural realities of the world they inhabit. But the kid looks thirsty, and Milky is right to run for their life.

A brief moment of relief ensues as Milky encounters an ally, another slave of the same material nature as Milky: a disposable vehicle for bourgeois consumption. Sadly, Milky fails to recognise the expended can as a corpse, long ago exhausted and discarded by its former masters once its “purpose” was fulfilled. Milky is treated to an example of capitalist ingenuity as the useless husk is repurposed by a group of juvenile apex humans as it is turned into a plaything for their brief amusement before it is once again discarded to pollute the landscape. Order is restored.

But Milky remains subservient, accepting of their place as the thrall of the family. This is expressed as Milky makes a phone call, revealing their own complicity in the corporate-industrial complex, as we are left to wonder how the fuck Milky came across coinage and—now that I think about it—was able to pump them into the phone, which is about three times taller than they are.

It is important to note that the ageing primarch of the family is even at this stage still lounging in his horrid pyjamas, having long ago lost any need to actually contribute labour into society. When one owns both land and the means of labour via fluid capital, one does not lower oneself to the actual labour itself. People in this state who are poor are called bums, whereas among the wealthy they are transformed into sophisticates and presidents.

In desperation, Milky naïvely turns to a modern exemplar of the oldest profession in the world. Foolishly, Milky seems to believe that some kind of solidarity must exist amongst both his own and other oppressed classes. In turn, this leads to the delusion that such unity might enable a mutual resistance against their capitalist overlords. Sadly, Big Suzy has been too effectively seduced by the material dregs from the overflowing corporate table and, desperate to protect her share of these scraps, her attitude is hostile. This is represented by the illusory facade of her corporate branding: she “makes all your dreams come true”.

Like all advertising, it is nothing more than a cynical attempt to coerce capital from dupes only slightly more stupid than their designer.

Are all choices binary?

And so we approach the crux of the entire episode; the archetypal turning point. Milky is able, for the very first time, to perceive themselves not as a singular manifestation of their wretched status as a consumptive slave, but one among many manifestations of their wretched status as a consumptive slave! What a moment.

In this, we are programmed to see Milky now as “he”, since we all know with unfailing uncertainty that, when compared to the colour pink, blue is the ultimate expression of masculinity. That these dichotomies were exactly the opposite as recently as the Renaissance only indicates the level of heresy and barbarism in which those simpleton predecessors of ours lived. Blue is masculine!

So, flush with his new-found status as a properly-coded male, Milky’s very first act is to assume a degree of entitlement. The “female” coded Milky waves to him once: that’s enough for Milky, whose eyes become the shape our culture has determined as a heart. This signifies that he is in love, even though there is absolutely no evidence yet as to why he might be in love beyond having seen an iteration of his own self flavoured pink.

Nevertheless, despite being crippled by the oppression of his capitalist overlords and the position of powerlessness they have placed him in, he feels immediately possessive of the pink Milky and sets out to claim his prize. Though it remains uncertain what it is he actually did to earn this 'prize’. One wave; one simple wave. That’s all which suggests that he can now safely assume that all the answers to the assumptions he is currently making in his mind are “yes!” Does she love me back? Am I allowed to touch her there? Will she get my beers out of the fridge? What a day this is for our boy Milky. Talk about a turn-around.

As he dances across the road like a bumbling idiot, pink-Milky looks at him, rightly, with pure disdain. This has not started well. Milky has become oblivious to his surroundings. He has forgotten his place. He is not the apex! This realisation comes into stark contrast for him as pink-Milky is treated the way most people who challenge the authority of a patriarchy are: she is stomped into oblivion. Like most males who develop a sense of entitlement toward a woman but cannot quite seem to “win” her over by the force of their sheer charismatic magnetism alone, Milky expresses his impotence by crying tears of rage.

A prophetic descent

At full pace, he sets out immediately to blame someone else for this disaster. His current mindset is reflected in a noir-tinged urban landscape he soon finds himself within. Where before, his willing acceptance of the status quo coloured his world with a glossy, pastel hue, it is now splashed with the grim and bleak shadow of a crapsack world. There’s shit everywhere, and the world for the first time looks how it actually is: pretty unpleasant.

Milky discovers nothing but distorted, nightmarish reflections of himself. In his self-pity, he has sought out ideations of his insipid and flaccid rage. Many have sharp teeth or glowing eyes, but are ultimately only empty receptacles full of spiteful bile (one example is literally leaking from the mouth). Hmmm. Disembodied mouths, unable to do anything other than spit and sneer, to terrorise—what could that possibly represent? Evidently, Milky has projected a prophetic vision of the future from 1999: his descent from a world in which he was legitimately oppressed, but rejected by the one woman he felt entitled to, into a dark shadow-world of men’s rights activism and then, further, into incel territory. The metaphor here is clear: Milky has discovered 4chan.

A quick aside: it interests me that the greatest vitriol people often espouse in their enemies is the thing they fear becoming most themselves. There’s a word for this in psychology: projection. For many socialists, it’s calling others fascists—because the subconscious fear of any socialist system is that too much state control might legitimately descend into authoritarianism. In that light, it amuses me to think what it is all those rabid man-children on the internet obsessively labelling their enemies ‘cucks’ might really be afraid of. Some other guy shagging “their” girl is literally their worst nightmare. Pathetic.

The horror-scape culminates with a glowing-green figure trembling with an hysterical rage; and what is the concept most associated with the colour green? Envy. What is the essential fear of cuckolding if not envy?

Milky… how did you see this coming? Are you a frog? Is your name Pepe?

Believe it or not, our soothsayer Milky is not quite done yet.

Portents of Dread

Until this point, Milky—The Most Loveable Milk Carton To Ever Exist—has been moving through the world, barely acknowledged by others; usually ignored, but when he isn’t he is treated with anger and ostracism. We have also established that Milky represents a prophetic vision of the future. He exists to warn us about the perils of our current time.

Milky, as the receptacle representing the manifestation of the future, finally comes into contact with his target, the imprinted visage on his own body; the ‘90s dork. And in doing so, what is the first thing that happens? The guy touches his face and rubs his nose. The shot cuts immediately to his family: the consequence of this action he’s just taken. Surely you suspect by now where I’m going with this. That’s right… the entire vector of his engagement with Milky is projected for us. He touches his face: we see his whole family as a corollary.

What else behaves in such a way?

Let’s review: Milky is largely ignored by the Boomer guy who, safe in his home, muses over his absent son. Milky moves around anonymously and—with a few foolishly well-meaning exceptions—treated with either absolute ignorance or outright aggression. The only figure to actively seek Milky out is a very young child, who doesn’t know any better. The moment Milky comes in contact with another version of themselves—and perhaps for a moment consider it not as “female” but just some other kind of similar organism, perhaps a alteration or upgrade of sorts—it is ruthlessly squashed. The very first moment he actually comes in physical contact with a human being, that person rubs their nose and we are given a flash of their famil—okay, I can’t sit on this any more: Milky is the fucking Coronavirus, for sure. There’s no other explanation.

And what happens next? Dork takes his virus away from his buddies, gets on a bus—Milky’s metaphoric status as virus now more evident as it sits in plain view on this public transport, no longer sprouting arms and legs because it has succeeded in its transmission—and then gets off again at his destination.

The denouement reaches its climax as the dork reaches his house. Milky-as-disposable-slave comes into direct contact (pun intended) with Milky-as-viral-infection as dork quickly quaffs him and tosses Milky into a nearby bin. Milky, his labour expended, has become unnecessary and is disposed of. Milky, the virus, is embodied now in the form of the ‘90s dork, who immediately enters the house to be embraced by his foolish family.

Therefore, beyond its expression of the nature of a capitalist society and its modes of oppression, it is hard to read Milky as anything other than the difficult decision to ensure that, say, young people who are part of a family but perhaps not their household need to pick a place to stay and goddamn stay there. Got a girlfriend, mister dork? Great. Invite her over, or go to her place, but both people need to pick one and stay there. Got a band, mister dork? Great. Actually, no luck there: just go home. No shuttling back and forth as you rub your nose and bring Milky into a new group. The symbolism of Milky-as-angel and pink-Milky-as-angel (or is it virus mutation COVID-19-a?) should be self-evident.

This public service message has been brought to you by Milky, The Most Loveable Milk Carton To Ever Exist.