It wasn’t technology that conquered the world, machines that came to life and took the power from humans. That’s sci-fi and it’s rubbish. Yet something has taken over the world: they are called Brands, but we’re not talking about Coca-Cola. We’re talking about brands that sweat, spit and piss, the walking and talking Human Labels. Get ready to face the truth, for even you aren’t that different from Ronald McDonald.

It all started from hiding under the umbrella of brands that guaranteed coolness. When it got a little crowded there, one of the Nike-kids decided to become an individual and get a pair of Converse too, Coca-holics went to Starbucks and so on. Instead of being spokesmen to the biggies and sporting their humungous, golden logos, people craved for becoming valuable items themselves. So came the evolution and gave us what we wanted, turning us into Ronald McDonalds, the brand personalities of our own.

Ronald gets recognized thanks to the veins blocked by fast food making the man pale as hell and the colours of warning signs on his clothes. Just like him, human brands dress according to what their me-brands stand for, wrapping their identities in fashion hoping the packaging will look tempting and scream “unwrap me!” – both sexually and un-sexually depending on the target group. The main point of dressing up is to be as clear as possible on who we are, meaning that when hearing “it looks SO you!”, “does it make me look fat?” can be left without an answer. Human brands are happy squirreling identity enhancements in the blind belief that wearing a jacket that looks like a penis just proofs their highly developed sense for design. Sure.

Next to packaging, human brands have their brand values, strategies and images like all the big ones. Just go to a bar and look attractive, and human labels will come to you spitting out their slogans and brand promises Those are all created and maintained by their internal branding agencies, which replaced the brain’s purpose as center for communication after Facebook hijacked that part. The funny little toy that was given to us to stay on the edge of what our friends had for breakfast has transformed itself into a channel for shameless self-promotion. Fakebook profiles are the ultimate caricatures of people as brands, the pollyannas and party animals we’d like to be. Press releases of 140 characters might also sound familiar, not to even mention seasonal campaigns with jurgen tellerlike snapshotty editorials from parties, where a living trademark sported a dazzling dress and had fun – at least when the flash flickered. Just like Ronald McDonald (who by the way isn’t as happy, huggy and chicken dance ready as shown in images, but more of a stiffly sitting loner) the brand images of people trick you like lengthening mascaras.

Successful brands are memorable, so if Mary has done a good job, everybody knows what is SO Mary and can define her in one sentence. But if Mary hasn’t yet been plasticated like our friend McDonald, her brand image is inevitably blocking parts of her humanity. Sure, she looks like a hoochie mama, but actually she hates heels and loves her pj’s and that’s the tragedy of human brands: once you’ve stepped into the shoes of Ronald, others won’t see beyond those red monsters.

Here’s SUPERSWEET’s universally acknowledged guide to the meanings behind clothes:

Leather pants: Water-repellent bottom bibs worn by rockers, günthers and spankers who go down and get dirty.
Leggins: Show-off sausage casings from the 80’s with a way too long expiry date.
Wide leg trousers: Worn only by those with low ankle esteem and smugglers specialized in Inside The Sock-exports.
T-dresses: A madhouse shirt aka Lohan-tribute, popularized simultaneously with rehab centers. Original designs are slightly longer and come with an open back, whereas counterfeits lack the arse opening.
Suspenders: Fluctuating level of fashionability varying from hipster uniforms to ancient belly holders.
Sweat suits: Comfort level as high as peeling off the skin of your teddy and wrapping yourself in it. Stands for cuddle deprivation.
Uggs: Same with a sheep.
Stockings: Demonic if not 1000 deniers thick and worn by nuns, says the Bible. No mercy for the sex-nutsos in fish nets and lace, only the ones giving lap dances will be forgiven.
Black dress: Elegance insurance that makes up for less than ladylike behavior. Burb and lift your hem up - all the others will remember is your classy outfit.
Stiletto Heels: For impaling men and small mammals.
Ruffles: Stands for peacock behavior and declining level of masculinity. Popularity fell together with Marie Antoinette’s head.
Tweed jacket: If you see one, run and run fast or you might end up having an intellectual conversation!
Bomber jacket: Compensates for not being man enough to become a real pilot. Tom “Travel Size” Cruise confirms.
Kaftan: Worn by ecoists who recycle sheets. Ideal for bed-ins and world peace pr. John Lennon confirms.
V-neck: Brand new boob job, bushy chest wig or another good reason to promote your decolte.
Lumberjack shirt: A flannel-soft expression of teenage angst, likely to come with the middle finger and a few “fuck yous”.
Maxi dress: Sign of a lazy cleaner who prefers sweeping the floors as she goes.
Flat caps: A modest capful of true cow smell worn by coyntrymen and the trendy elite, who overdosed on Chanel nr. 5 and lost their sense of smell and style.
Harem pants: Avant garde nappie hiders.
Fur vest: The fashion victims here are both animals and the wearer who couldn’t afford the sleeves or had them ripped off by activists.
Corsets: When the recession hit, someone put on a corset and started eating sand thinking looking like an hourglass would give them a job as one. Worked until the Goths noticed their rib killers missing.
Playsuits: Sign of a person regarded fashionable enough to pull off toddler gear and question practicality: let the letters W and C fill in the gaps.
Suit: The uniform of a successful investor, who never puts money on sex, drugs or rock’n’roll and has received a new toupee every Christmas since he was 11.
Sneakers: The world wouldn’t be the same without sneaker freakers, the corner stones of society capable of leaning against walls, looking cool and lacing up their own shoes.
Turtle neck shirt: A sign of a vampire attack or a desperate Edward Cullen fan, who gave herself a hickey.
Denim shirt: Androgynous trift store digger with a hands-on attitude. Likely to be stuck in the 80s or have a background in serial killing.
Combat boots: Desperate attempt to be as punk as Sid was Vicious. Grandmas will merely shake their heads as stones roll away afraid of being kicked.
Trapper hat: A sign of a tourist or a hair Nazi on a bad hair day.
Gloves: Worn by those OCD enough to carry a pair around without losing them. Note: doesn’t apply to rubber gloves. That’s a whole different case of disturbing behaviour.
Cardigans: If you’ll be introduced to your middle-aged mother-in-law, by all means wear a cardi! At least you’ll have something in common.

Words: Emmi Ojala
illustrations: Miff Weaver