Listen, I'm no jive turkey. I get that we live in an age of convenience and we're at the forefront of innovation and futurosity at any given moment. I know how many gigaflops are running my air-conditioner, and I can't wait to use my fridge to watch porn and make sandwiches, the way Jesus and the Founding Fathers intended. But I'll tell you what, man. We let ourselves down when it comes to technological innovation in the field of product packaging. Because fuck product packaging these days. Everything that can go wrong does go wrong, and I'm just displeased.
#5. Slick Freezer Packaging
This entire article exists because of these fucking things. Have you purchased frozen vegetables or frozen fruit lately? Most of it comes in these handy-ass little bags, right? NO! Fuck no!
I like the convenience of mangoes and strawberries all year round. I want them at 3 a.m. in January. I need that in my life. I want to put it in my blender and add some tequila and shit and be instantly transported to an island vacation. Or my sofa, but with a cold, fruity drunkening on the way. I like that.
But listen here, fruit and veggie packers of America, I want to teach you something about the nature of freezers. Freezers, where one stores frozen foods, freeze. When you package your product in a slick and amorphous plastic satchel, you basically create a displaced, three-dimensional, full-coverage, scale-model ski slope. Every surface is as slick as ice and will not allow for stacking in any way, shape, or form.
Are you working for Big Tupperware? Why am I the only one asking these questions?
If you have two of these bags in your freezer, it's no big deal. If half of your freezer is crammed with these, then every time you open the freezer door it's like Walter Pecker shutting down the containment field in Ghostbusters. Shit screams forth from a frozen underworld with an unheard-of speed and tenacity. How does it build up momentum if it's just sitting still in my freezer until I open the door? I don't know, but that shit can launch a frozen lasagna out the door like a Major League pitcher.
I can't count the number of times my freezer has hurled heavy chunks of icy pain at me because I dared disturb the delicate balance of the frozen bag Tetris game that was barely holding everything in place. Once one piece is dislodged, the rest turns into a Jenga avalanche of frosty fuck-youity. You can grab about four of them before the rest spill out and land on your feet with whatever else you were trying to hold in place, which is always heavier and more frozen than the fruit. Cans of frozen juice, a roast, whatever. It's heavy and hard as a rock, and it's on your foot because someone thought a fuckin' bag was more convenient to use than easily stackable boxes. You know who thought that? Thomas Raymond Asshole, food packaging scientist and Hecubus worshiper.
Apparently, around 6,000 people a year have to go to the hospital thanks to injuries sustained trying to manage clamshell packaging. PVC clamshells are most often used to hide electronics from the sticky fingers of shoplifters and the elderly who have used up all the rights they once had to new things. I don't know how people injure themselves on them -- I read they get cut somehow, so I assume again these are the elderly who put their tissue-paper-over-gushing-blood digits into their newfangled pet trimmer package after using a screwdriver to open a tiny hole, and the resulting mayhem almost bleeds them dry. Regardless of one's ability to slice and dice themselves, clamshells in general are bullshit. In the annals of needless packaging, clamshells will go down in history as the plasticized incarnation of a person you don't know slipping a finger into your ass on a bus and then looking you in the eye. It's needless and an affront to your sense of goodness and justice.
Emails sent to that address are just long strings of profanity.
Packaging should ideally serve to protect your item, whatever it may be, from rain, urine, the fingers of dirty children, DNA, and turds. Plastic wrap does a great job of that. Any standard box that's effectively sealed does a fine job. You don't need to use some kind of titanium-infused plastic armor to protect your $7 Walmart nose hair trimmer.
I like a nice brick of cheese. I like brick forms of food. Bricked food is powerful and manly as fuck. I bet bear meat comes in bricks. A brick you can just bite into and then wince about five minutes later as you feel your pulse quickening while your whole body tries to work that godforsaken cheese on through.
I think one brand of cheese on Earth has clued into the fact that no one eats a pound and a half of cheese in one sitting and we may, in fact, want to reseal our cheese for later.
And its packaging is, if possible, even weirder.
Everyone else just wraps that brick all loosey-goosey in plastic. So you cut open the cheese, you slice off enough for your delicious, grilled sandwich, and then you have a section of cheese the size of your forearm that you now need to wrap up like a fatty dairy baby in a babushka. Who the hell has cheese babushkas on hand? I might have a freezer bag if I'm lucky, but you're being real presumptuous, cheese. Why should I have to plan ahead to store my cheese when all you needed to do was add a Ziploc seal down one side of the damn brick? I'm not even an engineer and I thought of that shit; don't tell me the dairy farmers of the world can't figure this one out.
I refuse to be limited to eating cheese in string form for the rest of my life.
Unwrapped cheese has a shelf life of exactly the amount of time it takes you to shut the fridge. As soon as the light turns off, the final inch of your cheese wizens up like great grandpa's pucker, all dried out and cracked at the edges with a vaguely greasy sheen to it. Within five days it'll develop that white, mossy layer of almost mold, like mold's Rogaine, threatening to develop into a full-on aquamarine '70s bush all over your cheese by week's end. All because no one in Cheeseland could be bothered to invest in Ziploc technology.