Which Side Are You On?

I have always been a bed hog.  When left to my own devices, I sleep diagonally or even across the bed sideways.  Lori keeps me in check and usually on my left side, facing away from her so the snoring is slightly less locomotive-like.  However, if, nay, WHEN I go to bed early, I'm sure I spread out and need to be moved.  I know when I'm traveling for work, I revert to old habits and take up the whole bed again. 

Some years ago, probably about the time we got married, I got switched from the left side to the right side of the bed.  I don't know exactly how it happened, but what probably started as a whim so I could be near the fan has become permanent.  I suppose I don't mind this, but that might have something or another to do with why I gravitate back to the other side of the bed when left unchecked.

A cursory search of the Internet shows studies to determine if you sleep better on one side versus the other (right versus left, not top versus bottom), or if it matters in a relationship, which seems to dictate that the man sleeps closest to the door, which I usually do by virtue of the room design.  There's no feng shui of bed side that I can find.  I don't even understand the feng shui diagrams available on Google, though admittedly I didn't try very hard.

How about you, dear reader?  Do you have a preference of side?  Does the person with whom you share a bed have a side preference, thereby relegating you to the other side by default?  Do you sleep on a side when you're alone?

Tastes (Kinda) Like Chicken, Looks Like The Lower 48?

Call me old-fashioned, but I like my food to look like food.  Sure, it's a well-known fact that I enjoy the little cheese crackers with the peanut butter in them, and that color does not occur in nature except to scream 'poisonous!', but they do look exactly like they're designed to.

On the opposite side of the coin, what's the deal with chicken nuggets?  First it was McDonalds, and now it seems everyone is jumping on the 'that's-not-shaped-like-food' bandwagon.  I don't eat McNuggets, but on occasion, nuggets from other fast food icons make a quick and tidy snack when I'm on the run, and they're all shaped the same. Some of them look like Minnesota.  Some of them are shaped like animators used to draw pork chops back in the 1940's.  Some of them are shaped like paramecia.  Some of them have no rhyme or reason whatsoever, and they're only benefit is the ability to fit neatly into a vat of barbecue or sweet-and-sour.

I get the dinosaurs, the stars and the other amusing kid-friendly shapes, because we want our kids to eat something besides paste and scabs.  But unless you come out with the full fifty state nugget pack to teach them geography, it seems wrong to pick on one or two.  And 50 nuggets would just add to the growing childhood obesity issues in this country, especially dipped in honey mustard.

Round is good.  Shape them like drumsticks, I'll be happy.  It's an extrusion, you can't tell me these are the only shapes we can come up with.

Does that look like a McNugget/New Hampshire to you?

I mentioned my curiousity about this to someone the other day, and they sent me to this article about genetically engineered ground meat.  That's right, scientists are developing cell structures that will grow a hamburger without ever needing to be farm-raised, slaughtered or butchered, and it won't create the mass amounts of greenhouse gas expelled by real cows and chickens. 

This makes perfect sense to me, that half of the meat we consume is already ground, so why not remove the animal cruelty from the picture?  I love the American farm and the American farmer, but I've read much on the environmental impact a single cow can have on global warming, and how each cow produces 1/16th the meat-to-pollution ratio of smaller animals like chickens.  And now, everyone could grow their own meat.  I'm on board.

The only tragedy here?  Every day I don't finish my old novel is a day that my imaginary happenings become closer to truth.

Damn.  I wish I had some of those cheesy peanut butter crackers.

Everything but the oink

Some of you may recall my discussion on organ donation.  Others among you may remember me posting about the Hogzilla family back in Florida.  (I feel there should be some amusing and frighteningly accurate Venn diagram here, so imagine one.  I'm being lazy.) 

Now, the Discovery Channel has decided that we're SO overrun by wild boars that it warrants a weekly series.  We here at CDS Enterprises (a wholly-owned division of NFC Worldwide) think the time has come to actually welcome our porcine overlords.  Like dinosaurs or leprechauns, pigs could very well be the panacea this planet needs.

(I am not anti-Semitic, anti-Islam or anti-any-faith-based-dietary-obedience.  I am anti-vegan, a point you, my regular reader, will already know.  But this warrants mention.  This is not intended as an ethical discussion, either.  If you've been reading for any length of time, you'll have figured out that ethics have no place in vast global solutions.)

Anyhoo.  Depending on which scientific group you believe, we may be waiting until 2018 for swine-to-human transplants, but others think we may see the first of these this year.  We may start off with limited skin and kidney transplants, but porcine physiology has been used to mimic the human body.  I watch Mythbusters and CSI, so don't try to argue with me.  When they harvest the organs and skin from a pig, that leaves loads of nutritional value to be had.  Boars' hair is used to make paintbrushes, and pigs are full of sweet, unctuous gelatin.

And since we're overloaded with saturated fat in this country (mmm, sweet delicious lard), I'm sure some enterprising person could work out refining and purifying rendered pork fat, and we could all drive bacon-scented cars and trucks, heat our homes and offices, burn clean pork fat to generate electricity.  Can you imagine?  And in nations that consider this religiously blasphemous, just think, they'd still be able to survive using fossil fuel for generations longer, thanks to the use of wild boars in western nations.

Pork.  The other cure-all. Now if we could just find a use for the oink, we'd be all set.

Blast from the Past

January's a busy time around here at CDS Enterprises (A wholly-owned division of NFG Worldwide, Ltd.)  As such, I don't have the time to rant anew - at least not in print.  Being as we are four months from my cresting (and subsequently being 'over') the hill, it seems only appropriate that I share with you some crotchety posts from the past.

I'm not editing these, except where I may have spelled something incorrectly in my angry fervor.
 

Originally published August, 2006
Can you pay them to feed it to you, too?

Call me cheap, call me old-fashioned, call me anti-social (and you might be right on at least one of those fronts...), but when did it become such a chore to prepare a decent meal at home that we now have stores that let you order your 'home made' meals, then arrive at a pre-determined time and throw together ingredients that someone else has purchased, cut up, organized, arranged, chilled and categorized for you?  Isn't this one step removed from picking up TGI-AppleFactory Curbside-to-Go?

One of my friends has started doing this, paying $100 for the privilege of other people's potentially unwashed hands in her dinner, just so she doesn't have to buy a few odd spices.

My spice rack IS odd spices.  I love my trip to the grocery store, and wish the conventional grocery store arrangement of produce - deli - meat/seafood - dairy was rearranged, since my trip usually includes produce - meat - produce - meat - deli - dairy, I'm always composing once I see what looks the best.  I love the adventure of planning a week's menus at a time (I've tried to schedule further, much to my schedule-breaking dismay).

Why do things have to be so complicated when they were always so simple before?  And why didn't I think of it first?  It must be a goldmine!

An observation

I'm not sure if you see the recent crackdown on condiment abuse in your neighborhood, but in mine they've grown quite serious.  There is an allowable 'nugget-to-sauce' ratio that cannot be breached.  Want barbecue AND honey mustard?  Too bad, that'll cost extra. 

Are the youth of today getting a sugar buzz from downing sweet-and-sour shots after school, high-fructose corn syrup coursing through their veins?  Is there a rash of tomato-based meth labs spreading across the heartland of America that we can no longer have ketchup pumps in plain view?  What's next, are we to provide our name and address, photo ID's checked and double-checked if we ask for two jellies with our English muffin?  Black-market counterfeit ranch dressing dealers in the back lot of Wendy's?

Where does it end???!?!

Evenutally, I think we'll see the grocery store bagging our condiments in plain brown paper.  And I don't want to live in that world.

Unless, of course, there's some real money to be made in black market condiments.  If so, I'm there.

Fun Fact Fruesday - I'm Cracking Up

This is a tirade.  I won't go into detail on the Herculean ordeal of trying to get an Ohio driver's license.  I won't even go into detail as to why I urgently need an Ohio driver's license, or why Florida sucks. 

And Florida does, indeed, suck like a Dyson vacuum cleaner.

And no, this isn't a tirade about the Dyson guy, either.  But really?  Seventeen years researching vacuum cleaners and their shortcomings?  Guess who doesn't get invited to many parties.

...besides me, smartass. 

No, this is a long-overdue rant regarding one of my favorite childhood snacks.  Cracker Jack has been part of the American landscape since 1893.  In 1912, Cracker Jack started inserting prizes into their boxes, like cast metal figurines, pinball machines, marble mazes and Duesenbergs.

Crackerjack used to mean 'something pleasing or excellent', back in old-timey days.  Those old-timey-ers didn't set their standards very high, apparently.

But today, following the never-ending saga of OBMV* disappointment, I opened a bag of Cracker Jack to ease my weary soul.  Instead of a whistle or a stealth jet, I got a pencil topper.

And even that sucks.  It's the suckiest suck that ever sucked.

When I was a lad, a wee youth, a 'pencil topper' was a fancy eraser, like my green Frito Bandito, in all of his politically incorrect erase-y goodness.  He smelled of failure, like all good erasers should.

What did I get today, though?

A piece of freaking paper with slits in it.  Wow, Cracker Jack, thanks for trying.  Way to phone that one in.  Didn't strain yourself with that mental effort, did you?

That bag of Cracker Jack, with peanuts that simply refused to commingle with the popcorn, cost far more than I should ever have to pay for a snack.  And on a bad day, getting a temporary tattoo or a prismatic magnifying glass or Miss August 1998 would have brightened my day, at least a little bit.

Even the 'fun fact' is far from fun.  Even the kids who ate paint chips while we were growing up know that pencil 'lead' is graphite.  That's not fun.  And I think I know fun facts. 

On further investigation, it seems I don't even own a pencil.  This day just keeps getting better.

In summary: Cracker Jack is run by cheap, communist bastards.  And I still don't have an Ohio driver's license. But at least I feel a little bit better having gotten this off my chest.

*To clarify: OBMV is the Ohio Bureau of Motor Vehicles, not One Bad Mamma Vamma


**Also to clarify:  I checked my trash, and I only paid $1.29 for my bag of Cracker Jack.  But still, I've been ripped off.

Whatever floats your motorboat

We here at CDS Enterprises, a division of Worldwide NFG, try our best to make Cheesehead Displacement Syndrome a mix of culture and humor.  A place where reading makes you smarter, gives you something to think about before you go to sleep at night, and something to discuss around the water cooler, if such things actually happen.

However, it would appear that our target audience and our actual audience don't overlap.  I give you stories about how poultry reproduces, or where SkeeBall came from, educational quizzes from film and music, or a myriad of well-thought rental car reviews, and all you want is this:

Children.  The lot of you.  (Yes, this depiction is in my basement.  No, I didn't draw them.  No, I didn't label them, either.)

I get a fair amount of traffic, maybe a hundred or so hits a day.  For my little corner of the interweb, that's a big deal to me.  But when news came out that Danica McKellar was posing in lingerie again, this time for Maxim Magazine, I couldn't keep up with the hits.  Hundreds an hour from all over the world. 

Do I think any of those viewers even bothered to read the pointed article attached regarding the Erdos-Bacon number?  Doubtful.

So that's it.  Do I take this lying down, accept that people come here for the boobies and nothing else?

Of course not.  That would be selling out, cheapening our message to suit the carnivorous yearnings of a few 12-year-old boys with Internet access.

And we have more moral fiber than that.

Danica McKellar Danica McKellar Danica McKellar.

Into your life it will creep

I love conspiracy theories. Even better, I love theorists who shoot down other conspiracy theories for being 'too predictable'. Because what conspiracy is predictable? (For example, Lady Di faking her own death? Conspiracy theory fail.)

But man, paranoia is striking quite deep of late. And it has nothing to do with diet pills or 'Saved by the Bell' reruns played in sync with Dark Side of the Moon. Come on, MyLinkedAlumniTwitLifeBookScape, don't you think things are getting a little out of hand?

Years ago, the daughters were on MySpace, and being the concerned parents we were, we joined as well. I got sucked into groups, started a blog, made MyFriends and had MyConversations with people around the world, pulled MyHeists in MyMafia and wrecked MyCar in MyStreetracing. Suddenly, it became all too junior high, and everyone I knew disappeared over to Facebook.
Which is where things actually got a little stalker-like. Facebook instantly suggested people I hadn't spoken to since high school, or in some cases, elementary school. For better or worse, I've linked to them, and gotten more requests from other people who found them, and I've linked back to the MySpace friends I cared about in the first place, along with some of you, dear readers. As of right now, I only have one person on the list that I can't identify, no matter how many old yearbooks I fan through. What's next? A friend suggested, long ago, that I check out MyLife, whose ads grace the sidebar of Facebook. Why she suggested it, I don't know. But despite my refusal to pay for social networking, and my generally slim participation in the existing social outlets, I still get teaser emails from them, telling me random facts about the people who searched for me. Based on the demographic info they've provided, I can almost guarantee that at least 75% of these people weren't looking for me when they typed my name into a search engine. And it does prove to be less than a perfect marketing tool, when the same four searches come up each time and they all happened two or three years ago.

I'm not opposed to Googling the whereabouts of an ex, or that girl I went on one date with in college, figuring that if they aren't completely hooked up to the matrix by a plug on the back of their skulls, they could be dead, and not all obituaries come up online. Perfectly acceptable to think they couldn't bear to pine their lives away for me anymore. But it doesn't mean I have any interest in reconnecting, I'm usually just curious about their arrest record or death by speeding locomotive.

But when I went to delete the MyLife spam the other day, I noticed it was different. Instead of "Look who's searching for you", they've added a twist: "Look who's searching for your significant other!" Think your spouse is cheating? Confirm that by throwing their junior high school boyfriend at them during a fight. "Who's this 23-year-old Male in Branson that searched for you in 2006?" That's constructive. Because if someone searches for you, obviously it's because you sent out that 'I'm available and yearning for your 7th grade hotness all over again...' vibe.

Just because I can eat an entire pumpkin pie in one sitting doesn't mean I should. Just because I can add bacon to something for .25 doesn't mean I should (but yes, I should, really.) Just because you have access to the Internet 24/7 doesn't mean you have to seek out those long-lost romances or the fat kid you picked on in 3rd grade. Stop making the planet smaller.

In theory, preying on people's innate paranoia isn't wrong, I just want in on the action. If I'd thought up CreepyStalkerInYourCloset.com, for example, I'd want advertisers to cough up big bucks. (And for the record, I did think up CreepyStalkerInYourCloset.com, I demand credit for it and all subsequent ideas contained in this paragraph.) People could go on there and search through the deleted items folder on their stalkee's computer, looking for keywords like 'I love my stalker' or 'she's the only one who gets me' or those shower photos that accidentally showed nipple (while they were afraid to wash their hair). You could then link to everyone linked to your victim love interest, to stalk take an interest in them, too. Make sure they're not unhealthy influences on your stalkee, suggesting such ridiculous things as 'restraining orders' and 'witness protection'.

But make sure you keep it safe and above-board, people. Because if you do step out of line, maybe 'the man' will come to take you away. Then you'd better hope they offer Internet privileges in the pokey, and that CreepyStalkerInYourCloset.com isn't blocked.

Fun Fact Friday - Under Pressure

If salt was a drug, I could sell it by the gram.

What was up with those Queen dudes and that Bowie, ripping off a fine artist like Robert Van Winkle like that, anyway?

Saw a brief news article that made me cringe, the food nazis are back at it again. A New York state legislator has introduced a bill that, if passed, would ban the use of salt in restaurant cooking. Thankfully, and understandably, the restaurant community is up in arms and fighting back.

The bill, A. 10129 (if you cared) states, in part: "No owner or operator of a restaurant in this state shall use salt in any form in the preparation of any food for consumption by customers of such restaurant, including food prepared to be consumed on the premises of such restaurant or off of such premises."
The legislation, which Assemblyman Felix Ortiz , D-Brooklyn, introduced on March 5, would fine restaurants $1,000 for each violation. (No word on the regulation of Pepa or Spinderella.)

I agree that some fast food chains could probably cut their sodium use 90% and we'd never notice. Fine dining establishments, those that rely on the more delicate balance of the five tastes our bodies perceive, are less guilty of this, in my opinion.

Some, especially my darling wife, would suggest that I use far too much salt. I may not agree, but I can see that. However, what are they really driving at here with actual legislation to control our health, what could they hope to achieve? If I go to my grocery store, buy a Hot Pocket from the freezer for my lunch, that's almost half of my RDA of sodium right there. And who eats one Hot Pocket? Instead, I cook many of our meals at home, use fresh vegetables whenever possible, and try not to season heavily when I cook. However, I like salt. I like salty things. Buttered egg noodles with salt and pepper, salt on eggs, tomatoes, meat. Salt on my French fries when I do eat out. But I don't salt apples or melon or pizza, like some are apt to do. I don't salt desserts, though I did just have a sea salt caramel pretzel ice cream that was wonderful, and a Lindt sea salt dark chocolate bar a few weeks ago, with the hint of salt once the mouthfeel of cocoa butter had passed. And yes, I'm being treated for hypertension. I take a little generic pill once a day and all is right with the world.

I like fat, too. Much like the evils of salt that 'those in the know' like to force upon us, foie gras faced a similar fate in Chicago some years back. Foodies are a powerful lobby, I guess, and some creative chefs found a loophole until the ban was ultimately lifted. Because foie gras tastes good. Bacon tastes good. Cheese tastes good. Salt makes things taste good, complimenting sweetness or cutting oily or acidic flavors.

Salt is a preservative. A flavor enhancer. Even a required mineral to keep all liquid from evacuating your body like a fire drill. Salt was once currency. Will legislators outlaw money next? Perhaps just in restaurants.

And they said there's no such thing as a free lunch.

And what is the Ponz? He's cool.

Correctamundo.

The times, they are achangin' here at Cheesehead Displacement Syndrome. Once upon a time, the concept was that blog tags would allow you, dear reader, to find those items of greatest interest to you, to neatly flag and categorize my brilliance. Click on a tag for 'bacon', for example, and you get a list of salty, smoked belly goodness.

However, much like the obvious 'Contents may be hot' label on a McDonald's coffee cup, we will be discontinuing the use of the 'nerd' tag for the duration. Because really, I feel like I've been overusing the tag, resulting in an overwhelming mountain of posts for anyone searching the nerdosphere.

As an example of my ever-present nerdiness: After reading news articles, I've come to the logical conclusion that hard work is for suckers. I live in want, a victim of our materialistic society instead of one of its beneficiaries. Where's my reward for a life of ease and shortcuts? How can I best profit from the human need for something for nothing, leveraging both humanity's greed and inherent laziness? After all, one of my co-workers just pulled in with a brand new shiny BMW 7-series this morning, while my old Buick is becoming increasingly temperamental in this un-Floridian cold snap.

As such, I'll be starting a Ponzi scheme immediately, consequences be damned. On December 26, 1919, after spending two whole years trying to earn an honest living, Carlo (or 'Charles', if you prefer) Ponzi established a firm called The Security Exchange Company. He boasted a return of 50-percent interest in 90 days, and the world wanted in on it. And who wouldn't? Paying old investors this return from funds given to him by later investors, Ponzi didn't invent the scam but instead perfected it. He took in $20 million in a few short months, equal to $222 million in current dollar values, and when he fell, six banks crumbled with him.

However, until he was arrested, Ponzi lived the high life. As did Bernie Madoff, who sustained his house of cards for decades before being called to task. And whoever this guy was.

Granted, I'm not looking for 300 cars, a pair of luxury yachts, penthouse apartments (or models) or anything of the sort. But a little taste of the easy life would be cool.

Please send large denominations, non-sequential bills, unmarked and wrapped in a leather jacket. I'll make it worth your while. Really.
Aaaaayyyyyy.

Ayyyyyy...

Because I am in the land of my youth, the land of beer and cheese, and consequently nostalgic about my childhood, I am wont to recall my fondest memories of Happy Days, especially the Christmas episode from Season 1. Which brings up a philosophical question.

Has jumping the shark 'jumped the shark'? How many of today's youth could pick Arthur Fonzarelli out of a lineup? How many emo kids would just look crossways at you and cut you with the shards of a 'Panic! At the Disco' CD if you told them to 'sit on it'?

Sure, my growing sense of mortality is a recurring theme here at CDS Enterprises, and I'm not going to recount all of the other 'Those Damn Kids' items, like the invention of the Walkman and CD. But I will wax nostalgic about the television of my youth, the shark-jumping, talking Trans Am, Whatchoo Talkin' 'Bout WIllis, carefree days of letting my brain slowly melt out of both ears while the vacuum tubes etched my sillhouette into the wall behind me.

Sadly, in this day of reality-driven shows where today's hot new topic is tomorrow's Justin Guarini (and no, I'm not going to spell-check that, because I don't want it in my browser history.) There's no curve of inevitable disappointment to follow, because there's no public committment to a progressive storyline. Would anyone care if suddenly Jeff Probst were joined by a Cousin Oliver, because Neilsen ratings showed ratings slipping in the 18-24 single mother demographic? He'd be like Tattoo to Probst's Mr. Rourke.

And why is it always a small tow-headed child? Cousin Oliver, the creepy kid on Growing Pains (the one that WASN'T Leo DiCaprio...), Seven on Married...With Children, Nicky and Alex on Full House...what the hell, people?

And ultimately, did Fonzie really kill Happy Days? He's Fonzie, dammit! I think the real harbinger of doom is Ted McGinley. Happy Days? Ted McGinley in a Wisconsin sweater. Love Boat? Ted McGinley in white shorts. Married...With Children? Ted McGinley. As such, I will only accept two options henceforth to describe the death of a previously beloved television series: either it's been McGinleyed, or they pulled a Cousin Oliver.

I'd fill her house. Just sayin.

On the flip-side, there aren't nearly enough shows that give us the quality of programming genius like BJ and the Bear. I was eight, and I knew this was a kick-ass show. As if season one wasn't enough (I mean, a monkey AND truckers with hot CB lingo? Sign me up!), season two saw the addition of the entire 1979 Playboy Playmate lineup. In one pivotal episode that also starred Paul Williams (because hey, he was great in those Smokey and the Bandit movies...), we even got to see Judy Landers' coin slot. For 1980 network television, that was racy stuff!

I blame McGinley.

It's a Thanksgiving Miracle!

Not really, just sane booking. We fly out to Vegas in a few hours, and our flight change is actually ALONG THE ROUTE from Tampa to Vegas. Like someone planned it.

What are the odds?

Last time I flew Phoenix to Tampa, I changed planes in Philadelphia. Oooh, THAT'S direct. Likewise with my flight from Milwaukee to Kansas City, via Atlanta.

Click here for a map if you're confused by why this might cause me stress.

Wherever you're going, have a safe journey this weekend, even if it's just across town or across the kitchen. And feel free to vent about your worst flight connections here. Really, it will help the healing begin.

You can then be thankful tomorrow.

The Airing of the Grievances

A lot of people in this country pooh-pooh Australian table wines.

I'm okay with this. My experience with Australian wine, though not quite as disparaging as Monty Python's depiction, has not been good. And despite the existence of some fine quality low-priced wines on the market, I'm disappointed with what many of the big box vintners have to offer from down under.

In particular, I'm bothered by Yellowtail's aggressive marketing campaigns, trying to convince us that antifreeze and window cleaner are respectable wines.

What brought about this rant was their latest set of television ads, designed to fool the uninformed that their wines are tantamount to romance (hey, we both like crap wine, let's get married!), and evocative of the foothills of Tuscany.

Granted, two blokes named Bruce quoting Mick Dundee lines ("That's not a knife, that's a knife!") isn't going to make the vinoscenti go moist in their knickers. But what happened to truth in advertising laws?

Sure, if you're of the school that no publicity is bad publicity, this post is surely counter to my plan to warn you away from this swill. And I'm sure there are some high-quality wines coming out of Tasmania and New South Wales. For example, find yourself one of Mollydooker's bottles.

I guess the moral here is not to believe everything you see or hear, and to follow your own tastes and opinions.

As long as they don't run contrary to mine, because that would be wrong.

It's a small world, after all.

When I was a child, my elementary school was HUGE. In my mind, the doors were four inches thick and 20 feet tall. When I visited again as an adult, somehow the building shrunk four sizes to human dimension.
I get that, because size is relative. What was a giant bottle of soda that took both hands to manage when we were kids is now three swallows.

However, when manufacturers start shrinking their products on purpose and think we'll just shrug it off, I get a little upset. The marketing genius who thought we'd pay the same price for 25% less product should have received a monster bonus, because we're suckers and well, we will. What choice do we have when everyone does it?

It started with ice cream. Let's go to the metric system, because there are, perhaps, three Americans who aren't fooled by grams versus ounces. Let's keep the lid the same, and rakishly taper the container, because it will just look like forced perspective when they're scooping.

And I was livid when the major cola manufacturers switched from the 12-pack to the 8-pack, and STILL raised the price from $3 to $4. They're slowly moving back to the 12, because America wouldn't stand for it. Same thing happened when they tried to switch our bottles from 20 ounces to 500 mL. Metric system! 500 is more then 20, right?

And now, after buying the same unnamed quilted toilet paper from up north for years, the rolls shrank almost 3/4 of an inch in width from the last package to this one. I could understand one tier getting cut down a little off, it happens. But EVERY ROLL IN THE PACKAGE? Not coincidence, not an accident, this is purposeful, malicious downsizing. Cornholio does not like this. Not one bit.

Pretty soon, we'll all feel like Andre the Giant drinking our adorable little carbonated beverages and daintily wiping, as we all run out of ice cream and potato chips long before we should. I take it back. That marketing genius shouldn't have received a monster bonus, shouldn't be celebrated in the annals of marketing history. He should be unemployed.

In Greenland.