Dear Nabisco: A Letter of Dissension from an Angry Oreo Aficionado

September 21, 2014
You don't mess with a man's munchies. You just don't.

You don’t mess with a man’s munchies. You just don’t.

First, I’d like it to be known that I am in my fourth decade as a drooling gorger of the snack world’s greatest creation, the Oreo Cookie. Barely a day goes by that I don’t gobble, grind and swallow a sleeve or two of these wondrous caloric delights. Prior to a heavy snacking session, I’ve even been known to crush, powder and snort a few choclatey biscuit rails as a preface to the joy that will follow. The very concept of these marvelous stacks still seems revolutionary to me a full century after their inception! The Nabisco Research & Development team must’ve really been smoking the good stuff back in 1912. I mean, who else would have thought of bookending a pair of cocoa wafers around a patty of pure-white poisonous paste?! Well, technically, of course that would be the Sunshine Company that created the Hydrox sandwich cookie years earlier, but who even tracks those things other than Wikipedia? My point is that I have faithfully stuck by the Oreo brand even in the face of their colossal fuck-ups such as watermelon, banana split, and ass-fudge filling. In return for such loyalty, Nabisco has sunk to a low that qualifies as their most heinous crime ever against the Oreo institution and billions of rabid snackers, stoners and trans-fat fans.

To be direct, I hereby charge The Oreo Institute of America of shortchanging the public on the amount of jizz between their wafers. You should know that my allegations don’t stem from the mere musings of a munchie-driven ganja fiend. Physical research has been conducted in order to verify what started simply as paranoid suspicion. Extensive lab testing has confirmed the beat count you are attempting to pass off as a satisfactory volume of frothy filling. In essence, The National Biscuit Company has been skimping on the neuro-toxic wadding in order to save money. Well, let me tell you something you lousy crumb-counters, the pasty sweet stickum has fallen far below the quantity needed to effectively provide structural integrity to the cookie. We are not talking about a simple single-layered dessert organism here. Physics come into play with a creation as complex as a sandwich cookie. You more than anyone should realize that the security of the assembled piece hinges crucially upon the contact area of the bleached-putty, patty-face. Vacuum is a principle you seem to have forgotten, which is surprising when one considers how much you really suck for fucking with a good formula. Cream filling to a cookie stack is much more than what frosting is to a cake; it functions as a sealant to bond two bisections. Yet, you’ve allowed your manufacturing minions to reduce it to meaningless gelatinous muck. This attrition in volume not only robs connoisseurs such as myself of the Oreo’s very essence, but creates an unstable snack structure that falls apart as soon as it is airborne en route to the gullet.

My testing began with calipers ensuring that the thickness of the two pseudo-chocolate discs hadn’t changed, which they have not. At least that much is held sacred (for now.) However, using a freshly calibrated drop-gauge, I found that the cream filling itself (or lack, thereof) was negatively effecting the overall thickness of the snack. Worse than that, ultrasonic testing revealed that there were gaping air pockets within the filling which would ultimately act as sink holes denying the wafers the proper vacuum seal needed to hold the entire assemblage together. Collapse is inevitable under these conditions. Even the more progressive-minded munchers that dissect the confection for de-creaming across their central and lateral incisors are essentially robbed of the complete noshing experience. “Hollow” is just not a word that should describe a dessert. I realize that sugary lard may not be the cheapest ingredient in the world but with increased sales due to marijuana legalization, Nabisco can certainly afford to give us a properly constructed cookie that doesn’t fall the fuck apart between the daintiest of fingers. Granted, the dog is quite happy with my lapful of crumbs but then again, he isn’t the one paying for the damned cookies, is he?

I’d also like to take issue with the Oreo Marketing Department. No favors are being done to the English language by dropping a crucial consonant from your “Double Stuf” cookies. Was this initially a typo that you decided to ride out as opposed to eating crow? By any stretch of logic, the pronunciation is no different than the properly spelled “stuff.” I can assure you that there is nothing clever about acting stupid, my friends. I am desperately trying to look past the fact that this abysmal creation of a cookie holds barely a pittance more filling than the original cookies once possessed. Double, my ass! I see where this game is going. Nabisco is once again trying to stiff the consumer, or should I say “stif?” So, thanks for shitting on the last cornerstone of American awesomeness, you greedy cream-scrapers. The terrorists have officially won.

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A Slice Of Cheese And A Pound Of BullShit

July 12, 2010

Package of Monkey Tits, organic jungle boobie meat

“Two slices of the Low-Sodium, Slightly-Glazed Virgina Ham cut as thin as possible without being shaved, please. I’d like a sample first, though” the man requested. With his face pressed up against the glass case, he looked up and added “I’d also like to sample the Horseradish Maple Swiss Cheese with the pimento particles stuffed inside it. Make it slightly thicker than the ham. I want a slice from the middle of the loaf, though. The ends never taste fresh. Don’t put it away, either. If I like it, I’ll have 3 slices of that one. Thanks.” Thus began my afternoon at the delicatessen.

Ultimately, my anal-retentive friend rejected the sample’s flavor and molecular density.  He browsed and pondered at his leisure before requesting another elaborately detailed cut of lunch meat. The line lengthened, stomachs grumbled and watches were checked for missed appointments. Yet, the man stood shamelessly collecting separate baggies each containing a few slivers of meat or cheese. Granted, I’m not highly educated. I possess no degree or title in lunchmeat connoisseurship. Yet, I couldn’t help thinking that if I was going to buy just enough meat for one sandwich, I would buy… hmmm… let me see… oh, I know… a fucking sandwich! Clearly though, Mr. Slice was indeed well-versed in the deli-arts and intended on building an edible masterpiece on his own terms. I could only assume that he would stop at the bakery to calibrate their ovens before purchasing one small hand-picked hoagie roll.

One of the most obnoxious activities witnessed at the deli counter has to be the incessant sampling of every meat block and cheese log under the glass. It’s not the Pepsi Challenge, dude, you don’t need to taste ‘em all. I say, roll the dice and buy a pound. If it tastes like an unwiped ass, just induce vomiting and hope it tastes better on the way back up. Besides, at least half of those sample-grubbers are just trying to get a free lunch while standing in line. Most people buy the same damn cold cuts every week, anyway. They already know what the Spicy Rat’s Ass tastes like and don’t need to nibble on a chunk while rolling their eyes around in debate over the purchase. The deli clerk should recognize these repeat offenders, deny them samples and send them to the end of the line with a pepperoni stick up their backside.

My turn at the deli counter is much more streamlined. I order deli meat with a great degree of certainty. “Genoa Salami, one pound, the good stuff” I bark, as my fist strikes the counter like a gavel springing my pastrami pal into action. Simple and straightforward, no clarification is required. This malarkey about the thickness of the cut is just another example of American culture gone berserk. In other parts of the world, people have to hunt and kill their own olive loaf each day before lunch. I just couldn’t, in good conscience, stand there and demand that my Hickory Squirrel Loaf be exactly 12mm in girth. If it was that damned important, I’d carry digital micro-calipers to the deli to gauge each slice for accuracy. Quite frankly, I don’t have the fucking time. Ballpark estimates work just fine for such trivialities. The Cheddar Chief behind the counter needs to take the customer’s preference out of the equation and use common sense. If the ham is sliced so thin that I could trace the funnies through it or mistake it for toilet paper, you might want to beef things up a bit. On the other hand, if the Smoked Bull Wanker is so thick that it could smother a large child, you can probably shave it down a few notches. As far as I’m concerned, anywhere in between those two extremes should just be fine for everybody. So, lock down that adjustment knob, Baloney Boy, and keep the line moving, please!