There's nothing that can't be sold to people who believe that style is equivalent to price. Tapwater in an expensive bottle. Semi-digested coffee beans excreted from the anuses of civets. Carbon crystals.
People have always been easy dupes, but the extent of the gullibility is now accelerating as the middle classes scramble to differentiate themselves from the newly commercially-exploited plebes by selecting only the acceptable brands of denims, retro-futurist furniture or compact cars. The new marker of status is not the quantity or nature of possessions, but only the manufacturer.
As an object lesson, let's take a look at denims. They cost approximately $2 to make. I'd wager that the Asian lackey who stitches them together earns less than that. You pay $150 for the "good ones" without batting an eyelid, providing some justification to yourself about the quality of the fit or stitching.
In fairness, this has always been the case to an extent, but now it's not only about buying, it's about having the whims of your palate dictated to as well. I've never seen such a profusion of irritating cunts hocking glossy books about the recipes on their tastefully lit cooking programmes. You cannot turn your head without seeing that scooter-riding mockney fuck Jamie Oliver's moist, floppy lip pouting at you. He might have some good recipes, but so does the fucking internet, people, and you don't have to put up with his fauxletariat pattering pseudoguvvery and mate-isms.
Coffee. Fucking coffee. When the office machine's down, I can't sip a cup of instant coffee at work without being evangelised as to the wonderfulness of some overpriced corporate franchise brand that requires me walking a few blocks, waiting in a line and spending money, then carrying the stuff in a cardboard cup back to the office. It's COFFEE. I've drunk plenty and it's never so fucking fantastic that spending money instead of getting it free has ever seemed remotely justified.
Gyms? Run. Do pushups. Situps. Use your own personal ablution facilities and stop buying into some go-getting tough-guy fuck's bullshit "martial arts" that make you look like a fucking ten-year-old Spice Girl wannabe. If you've even said the word "spinning" in reference to pedalling a stationary bicycle, you're a dumb fuck. Buy a real bicycle and get out and actually see things instead of a TV screen featuring the metallic-sheened buttocks of steroid-abusing leo-retards. These apparently "fit" people are always complaining about how they strained something. Fit for what? Hunching in your desk with sore shoulders and limping to the watercooler?
Being up-to-date is not the same thing as being informed or intelligent. Picking the right products is not the same thing as being creative.