Shrink Wrap This
Originally published May 2004
To the supreme jackass who tampered with Tylenol in the 80s, and to sticky-fingered kleptomaniacs everywhere: I blame you for everything being sealed so thoroughly these days that one needs the patience of a saint and the strength of Schwarzenegger to successfully open a jar of peanut butter. I mean, seriously, no one should need a freakin’ engineering degree to get into a box of animal crackers.
And may I also say that you had better hope we never meet in dark alley because I may not look it, but I’m scrappy.
Because of you, bags of cotton balls—soft, fluffy, inanimate cotton balls—are now sealed for my inconvenience, although marketed under the guise of being sealed for my protection. Let’s be clear, I have no intention of eating cotton balls. Because laced or not, ingesting balls of cotton is generally going to cause me some discomfort. You say it’s to make sure nobody snatches a couple out of the bag? Ah yes, because so many of us when making our grocery lists write down: “1 Cotton Ball.” And you can squash the freshness angle, stale cotton balls are not inherently dangerous.
And what about other products that fall into the over-packaged category:
Windshield Washer Fluid. Are you kidding? What exactly are you protecting me from? If I decide to pour myself a tall glass of this blue liquid, psychiatric help would appear to be a more pressing issue than that of a bug-splattered windshield. And if you say you have small children and you don’t want them drinking it, then I say poison is why God made tall shelves and Mr. Yuck stickers.
Condoms. I can’t put my finger on what it is exactly, but there’s something wrong with protecting me from my protection. Ironic? Redundant? I don’t know, you make the call.
NyQuil. If I’m taking NyQuil, I already feel like crap, what with all the nighttime sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, stuffy head and fever. Who knows, a little rat poison may help. And if I *need* NyQuil you can bet that my physical condition is considerably weakened which makes removing that shrink-wrapped shot glass a real friggin’ chore.
Advil. Getting into a bottle of Advil these days is like detonating a Skittles commercial. Small, medicinal disks flying around the room, only to land on the bathroom floor like an army of tap dancing ants (or elephants, depending on how bad my hangov—pardon me, headache—is).
Batteries. The most dangerous thing about overzealously packaging batteries is that when I finally wrestle the plastic open and the batteries spring forth—as though launched by NASA—I run the risk of permanent brain damage as they fall back to Earth.
CDs. I need two things to get a CD open these days: The Jaws of Life and three fingers of bourbon.
And to the yahoos who have nothing better to do than tamper with things that do not belong to them, here are a few hobbies that may fill the boredom and sadistic tendencies you clearly have:
Whittling: Don’t judge yet, you don’t know where I’m going with this. Turning a stick into a smaller, pointier stick can be very rewarding. Especially if you combine it with…
Bear Antagonism: Talk about exhilarating! There’s nothing quite so thrilling as poking a large, angry bear with a small, sharp stick. I mean, you’re so quick to put us in harm’s way, if you want to see somebody die, carry a mirror and go bear poking. And nobody deserves to witness their own bear-mauling more than you, you tamper-happy schmuck.
Here’s another pair of hobbies I’d like to see you tackle: Knot-Tying for Beginners and Bungee Jumping. There are so many things that can go wrong, it’s impossible to know where to start! But here’s a thought: tie a rope around your ankles and jump off something really tall. And when I say tall, I mean lack-of-oxygen tall.
Alligator Dentistry: Give something back to the alligator community, like your arm.
Look, I don’t know why you tamper, and frankly I don’t care. Just cut it out. Start making better use of your free time and if you absolutely have to tamper with something, tamper with your own stuff. I’m sure you have cupboards full of crap that’s just begging to be laced with strychnine, or to have razor blades added to it. But stop tampering with things that don’t belong to you. Because if you stop tampering then they’ll stop hermetically sealing jars of peanut butter and then I’ll be happy. And in the end is that what we all really want? My happiness?
