This has not been one of my banner weeks. Added to my bottomless pit of literary rejections, my screenplay failed to reach the finals in an important writing contest, Coco and I are in the doghouse with each other, and Rob Grill, the lead singer of the Grass Roots, a band that recorded a song I liked very much in my youth, Let’s Live for Today, that I recently downloaded on iTunes for 69 cents while feeling nostalgic, died from a head injury three days ago. In a perverse way I feel responsible as if my funk is to blame for his demise. Too bad my funk’s aim was off and it did not veer in the direction of Muammar el-Qaddafi, now that Osama bin Laden is swimming with the fishes.
As an illustration of my patriotism deficiency, I am not the type that’s inclined to eat voraciously when I’m depressed. I did suffer an uncharacteristic craving for potato chips, a snack I seldom scarf, and I thought, “Hey, why not?” When I made this impulse purchase I did not invest an iota of thought into the potato chip maker’s brand, Kettles. As much as I like Kettles’ products, their user-unfriendly bags are designed to never open in a way that allows easy closure. Their bags have a little notch in the lip at the top that I assume* the end-user is supposed to tear open the bag in this place.
*I make this assumption since Kettles does not include opening instructions with their potato chip bags; something I could sorely use.
Via the notch in the lip, I tore open my bag of Sea Salt flavor potato chips. Pictured below is the end result, my inability to adequately open a potato chip bag.
It’s only a matter of time, possibly after three more apathetic hand dips, before the mutilated left corner of the bag commits suicide expediting the overall death of the freshness factor of the foil package. One very American way to avoid quickening the descent into stale is to eat the chips within the bag in their entirety, possibly while kicking back a six pack and watching mindless crap on TV. After that main course, for dessert, I could epically hate myself, fantasize about sticking my head in a noose, and then calculate if there is a way I can afford primal scream therapy on my scant wages.
As an alternative to increased self-loathing, and resisting the opportunity to grow a third butt-cheek in a single sitting, I’ve decided to travel the Plan B route in sustaining my chips’ freshness factor.
If anyone from Kettles should read this post, maybe you can reconsider how you seal your bags, unless this notch is an intentional ploy to motivate the consumer to eat your chips faster so we’ll be inclined to purchase more quicker. Hmm. I’m onto you Kettles and you don’t want to be infected with my current crummy karma. Just ask Rob Grill.