A Twofer: Duality of Packaging Sans Wordy Descriptors

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Charli, EmGee, Kel, Bucky, Laura & Swampy...I dub thee ladies:

Queen Sucky Package.

*kabong!*

(That was my sword smacking you on your armor.) [Sorry, but you all have to share the title and crown...there's but one of each, because like you, they are unique.]

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Ya gotta love our extra-cool visitors! TX!!
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First Ever Guest Post

How about EVERY FUCKING CEREAL COMPANY'S PACKAGING SUCKS ASS FLAKES???

I pay $7 for a box of cereal and these Master's O Marketing can't give me a package of cereal that can re-seal? It isn't like zip-lock or resealable bags are cutting edge technology you fucking simpltons. But instead we get those stupid little waxy-bags that you need a blow-torch to open some days and the only thing protecting your wheatiey-goodness is your pathetic attempt at rolling the bag up to close it and that dumbass little paper clasp that you probably ripped to all hell anyhow.

Did I have a bad cereal experience this morning. You bet I did.

-EmGee

Label Me Plentiful

Signs, signs, everywhere signs…and labels.

I’m looking at a bottle of Propel here on my custom made coaster. (I love my little coaster!) It’s a tasty little beverage that is also a glaring specimen of sucky packaging. Not only does it have the negative properties of postings past (http://yourpackagingsucks.blogspot.com/2005/01/thar-she-blows.html) but it also has more.

The familiar for-your-protection-plastic guarding the spout from easy tampering has a flaw. It actually allows the part of the spout you cram in your mouth to be exposed. Any sicko could come along and lick his germs all the way to an Eww-ier you. Bleck!

Beyond that for-your-protection-plastic is the hidden foil beneath the spout. I’m not sure how many guardian angels I had to wear out before I finally was able to retain a properly working reminder that I need to remove this sucker. Sure I appreciate its existence in this sicko-licko world of ours, but you must admit at least once in the past you tried to suck, and no liquid sprang forth. (Hey, watch it.)

I get beyond the for-your-protection-plastic and the hidden foil. (Though I don’t know how because I just applied my hourly lubrication and could barely hang on to the tiny-tabbed hidden foil to remove the sucker.) I spin the spout back in place, give an extra tug of luv for good luck, and I give a propelling sip. Ah, Tropical Citrus...but wait, something is a little off with the label.

To me the word “natural” isn’t always a bad thing. To some it might be a sign that some form of hair removal process is necessary, but with a beverage, “natural” ought to be a-ok. Why would the word “natural” need to be in a smaller font than the words “tropical citrus?” I can understand why they shrunk “flavors” down because if the eye catches that one, you might put this sucker back in the fridge from whence it came. But to me, all together “Natural Tropical Citrus Flavors” sounds appealing. Of course there’s the blaring NEW off to the side. I’m 99% sure all humans gloss over products these days without ever seeing or reading “new.” It blends. It’s Advertising Cammo.

Like many products these days, this packaging just has way too much information. Here is how the front reads:

Natural TROPICAL CITRUS Flavors
New
Propel
Fitness Water
Vitamin Enhanced Water Beverage
From the Makers of
Gatorade

I get to the bottom of all that and I ask myself, “What is it again? What am I drinking?”

At least it’s not as bad as some of the over-the-counter pharmaceuticals out there. Have ya checked out your Equate brand Ibuprofin lately? Sheesh, open a big volume of some chemistry book and slap that on the bottle. THAT’S your Equate Ibuprofin label. It’s like a Who’s Who of chemical information. I don’t understand crap on those suckers. I see “compare to (fill in name brand of choice)” and the price. That, I understand for I am cheap and I wanna be symptom free.

Back to the Propel – good flavoring, groovy wavy-blue bottle with the suck-on-me spout, but bad labeling. Next time I just wanna see “Propel Citrus” and that’s it or I’m telling the world, Gatorade, that your packaging sucks!!

Readers Respond: Seen here, a gathering of the minds. "The Anonymous Four" readers met on this bridge in the middle of a secluded park to discuss sucky packaging. The end of the discussion found them all in agreement. "Packagers of chicken noodle soup, Your Packaging Sucks!! (And no, those pull-ring lids don't help.)," they cried. Expect to see flyers go up all over your town. No telephone pole, park bench or supermarket corkboard is safe.

Thank you ladies! The world is a safer place to live because of you, no butts about it.

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5-7-5

YPS!! Haiku.
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Flamallard.

Look! Up in the sky! It's bird, it's a plane it's a...Flamallard!
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Just Because You Can?

Go ahead; poke fun if you want to, see if I care. :P

This post is going to be intentionally shorter in length. It’s far too confusing and complex a matter for my meek matter to grasp, and I’m not sure if it matters anyway. Like most men out there, I spend my Sundays being concerned about Even Sock Wear, or ESW. Countless studies have shown that ESW is responsible for causing everything from foot and back pain to Accelerated Irritability. (Combined with Road Rage, that last one can be a real bitch.) Once I completed my 52-question checklist on each and every pair of socks, I determined my Acceptable to Thin Sock Ratio was off by no less than 4.627 socks. Yes, I too was in shock. Again, like most men, I let out a free flowing stream of expletives and went in search for new socks. Immediately.

Please see attached image for further details of my sock purchase. No, go ahead, we’ll wait right here.

*whistling the I’m-already-tired-of-waiting non-song*

(You do too know which one, that “dooo doo dooo” one. See, told ya!)

*inserts Eddie Van Halen-like harmonic stylings into non-song*

Hello, have we met? Oh! It’s you!

Once home I see it. Right there in front of my eyes, but I’m not believing it and neither are they. (Ouch, my eyes.) Did you notice it too? Yep, they’re resealable. My freakin’ socks, nice as they are, are re-fucking-sealable.

Now. What. In. The. Hell!? Socks that come in a resealable bag?

With my manly foot funk, I sure as hell ain’t going to seal them back up AFTER I use them. If they were in need of sealing them BEFORE I used them, why the hell did they put them on the shelf for sale? Isn’t that like, illegal or something? I know you can’t buy dirty goods on eBay, I’ve tried…I mean I’ve read about where they’ve, oh never mind.

One more thing, at the risk of going too far I need to ask you fine folks out there to forgive me, but where on this package does it say “Socks”? Sure there are three pictures of socks, and it does say “6 pair”, but there’s also a man on the front of the package. Sure I can see the socks through the package, but that man is obscuring my view of the sockage. This is clearly wrong and a violation of some UN treaty, I just haven’t found out which one.

What it boils down to is I’m glad my Acceptable to Thin Sock Ratio is now back in line, so that my concerns about ESW are minimized. Hanes, have it your way, have it his way, and have it her way but your packaging sucks!!

"Those two bastards have a blog?"  

Whoa Momma! The Gnome is Looking!!

In They Came

I must admit, I was a little curious, a little anxious, a little excited. I’d placed an order and I was just itching to report my findings after surveying the way the ordered goods were packaged. All the build-up was because I’d ordered some Your Packaging Sucks!! swag from the Your Packaging Sucks!! store and I wanted to see if the packaging was sucky that contained the Your Packaging Sucks!! swag emblazoned with the Your Packaging Sucks!! logo. The other day, the Your Packaging Sucks!! swag arrived from the Your Packaging Sucks!! store and I quickly tore into the packaging in such haste, that said packaging was obliterated…sucky or not.

The order was placed for reasons threefold. Research, research, research. No, that’s not all three reasons, that’s just one…emphasized. Also, in celebration and recognition of Bone Machine’s birthday, a lime green YPS!! t-shirt was ordered along with a lovely and stylish bumper sticker. For myself, I purchased a durably made, 100% cotton, white t-shirt with said logo and a lovely and stylish bumper sticker of my own. We are set. We will be sharp dressed men with no girls to be crazy about us. (‘cept Mom of course.) (Hi Mom!)

To get right to the point, yes it was. The packaging was sucky!! The packaging was one of those plastic shipping bags. These are fine and well and had the order consisted of just t-shirts, the house would have been rockin’ with good news. But I’d also gotten the bumper stickers in the same order…in the same bag. I realize the stickers are nylon (or some type of plastic) and that getting bent during shipping isn’t really an issue…unless you don’t intend to actually stick the sticker. I was entertaining the idea of saving the sticker so I can look back when telling my grandchildren of sucky packaging days of yore and how my cohort helped turn around packaging travesties everywhere. I’m not sure my grandchildren will be quite as impressed as you see the backing of the sticker IS paper. The backing IS bent. This makes for less of an impressive display and the youngsters notice that sort of thing you know. Grrrr.

That said, while not completely and entirely sucky, I feel I must say: Packagers of the Your Packaging Sucks!! swag, from the Your Packaging Sucks!! store, YOUR packaging sucks!!

Another one for the ladies--a gratuitous ass shot just in time for Valentine's Day. 

...or at least you should.
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Reading the comments on your blog is something akin to watching the Chinese play table tennis at an Olympic level...you don't dare look away cause you'll miss some important move.
-swamp4me
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A Poem: Your Packaging Sucks!!

Iron-plastic boxes & CD bastard strips
With them I cannot come to grips
These designers must be on a HEAVY trip

Zipping baggies, twist-off cappies
& tea baggies
More evil than ten Sea Haggies

Childproof bottles, easy-pour spouts
Rocks much less than Bobby Sprout
Bubble wrap, Gnomes and monkeys
Don’t know why your packaging’s so sucky!!

Press here to open & press hard while turning
Forever keep my eye sockets burning
(Ouch, my eyes)
It’s not funny guys!!

Shampoo bottles that won’t stand
Makes me twitch in my pituitary gland
Pouches that give you Cocoa Crotch
So much packaging THEY did botch

Stubborn medicine card sheets
Does not help my pain retreat
Bottled water’s fountain flow
Look everyone! It’s the wet crotch show!

Salt’s metal-hinged spout
Did THEY run out of brain grout?
Exploding bags of Tater Chips
And they go straight to the hips!

Milky pull-ring mucous-pus particles
Those boys must suffer brain farticles
Bustin’ cans o’ biscuits
Damn I need a Triscuit!

Hot Dog & bun inequities
Jimmy Legs & Eebie Jeebies
Why oh why if we spend our bucks
Must we tell you that Your Packaging Sucks!!?

You might want to avoid this kind of tea. The quality of packaging is still up for debate. 

You Old Bag!

I have such a keen urging for caffeine. Not a keen urge of days gone by mind you, but keen nonetheless. There was a time when I’d rise out of bed in the morning, take that pressing call from Ma Nature, and head straight for the refrigerator. In those days, I took my ice cold Dr. Pepper with me to the shower. Sometimes I even took a break from my morning Dr. Pepper to actually cleanse myself. Sometimes.

It might have been a macho thing to be able to brag about drinking 6 cans of Dr. Pepper a day, but I wasn’t macho. I’m macho as hell now of course. (Oooh! Is that periwinkle?! GAWD! Could this Mocha Grande rawk any harder?) As time went on, even though my ways got set, the cholesterol level went up and the Dr. Pepper (among other dietary standards) went by the wayside.

I laughed in my doctor’s face when he suggested, “Now all you need to do is lose the Dr. Peppers and get some exercise.” LOL like THAT was going to happen. The next visit, he said the same, despite the dropping levels of cholesterol. LOL like THAT was going to happen! Well it did. I went from 6 fully leaded cans of DP a day, down to like 3 and 3 dietetic. Eventually they would all be diet and then the unthinkable happened. In my opinion, since they tasted like crap, I may as well go and loose the caffeine that I don’t need, along with the good taste. After weeks and weeks of downshifting my beverage of choice, I was now on Diet Caffeine Free Dr. Pepper. During the decaffeination process I only saw a handful of spotted-feathered elephants and only on one or two occasions did my hair increase in weight six times over.

I say “decaffeination process” lightly because it wasn’t a complete transformation. At one point I read an article making wondrous claims of the powers of coffee and that a little caffeine now and then wasn’t all that bad. That’s all I needed because back in the day, I could drink some coffee like whack. So now I start my day with a pot of coffee thanks to the genius behind the Braun Gold Filter Automatic Brewer with a built in timer. While this technology is decades old, it is technology that allows many countries around the world to be kick-started each morning by world leaders benefiting from a coffee timer.

But, alas, this is not about coffee at all. This is not even about Dr. Pepper. This is about those bags! This is about those little old bags that you have to coax out of their clothing just to get a taste of their juice. (Blue Moon of Kentucky keep on shinin’…)

I’m talking about tea bags. That starts with T and rhymes with P and that stands for “pissed”, right here in the River City. Not long after I read the “Coffee: Does a Body Good, Pass it On” article, I also read “Green Tea, Green Tea a Marvelous Drink -- So Chic.” After learning of the health benefits of green tea, I found another road leading back to the City of Caffeination and I was putting the pedal to the metal baby! (Riding on the City of Caffeination, I’ll have drunk 500 cups when the day is done.) So now the daily beverage line-up goes like this: Coffee, water, water, green tea, water, water, water.

Since green tea is so beneficial, I can see why the packagers go to great lengths to make sure your tea arrives intact. On the exterior, clear cellophane and a sturdy cardboard box. The interior contains your tea. Delicately dried tea leave particles contained within stapled bags made from old lady’s nylons. Each stapled old lady nylon bag is attached to a long string that is attached to a little white envelope advertising the brand you plunked your money down to purchase. Now what strikes me as being odd about this apparatus is the fact that the spot where the string is attached to the envelope, is a tear-away square of paper. When I detach this tear-away square of paper, I giggle a little and smile at the stapled old lady nylon bag as if it were a young child holding its first kite. Go young lad bag, fly your kite and make with the merriment!! (Let’s go fly a kite, up to its highest heights and send it soaring. Up to the atmosphere, up where the air is clear…)

Now maybe back in the day all that garb was needed to make tea. But for me, I just want my delicately dried tea leave particles contained within stapled bags made from old lady’s nylons without the kite. Otherwise I’m of the mindset that, Lipton, Your Packaging Sucks!!

Get Out the Pointy Hats Folks!!

My own private Hell

Yet another slight deviation from the suck-ass packaging theme for a personal gripe. For those wanting a rant on packaging, please steer your boat into other seas on this little slice of Heaven. What you are about to read will offend many and flat out disturb others. Some will become so emotionally damaged from this one that they will actually seek spiritual guidance (check out my bio, folks) and perhaps schedule an exorcism. While I won't apologize for what I am about to type, I will just say that you have been warned. Now for a bit of brutal honesty.

You have no doubt heard of mysterious creatures throughout history. Things and phenomenons that some claim to have seen or witnessed, but many remain skeptical of their existence simply because they have yet to spy these beasts with their own optical orbs. From Bigfoot to the Loch Ness Monster to UFOs and space aliens. How many of us have actually seen any of these things? If anyone has actually seen anything from that list, were you sober and able to pass a random drug test at the time?

While this particular mythological beast is much less popular than the aforementioned things, it does exist. Believe it or not. As God as my witness, there is actually a human being (in the loosest sense of the words) that does not like cheese. I know that you are now sitting in a stunned silence. Once that silence is broken, you say to yourself "There is no (expletive deleted) way that such a thing exists." That is where you would be wrong, because I am that mythological beast, that poor misguided creature, and on my best days, that person that does not like cheese.

Now, please breathe deeply in order to regain your composure.

Better?

Good.

Now that you are able to accept the fact that someone can walk the Earth and not actually pursue the consumption of the evil shit known as cheese, I will continue my blasphemous banter. I should probably offer you a moist towelette, but I think you can handle it. Be strong.

I'm not sure at what point in life I was saved and became a born again cheese hater. To the best of my recollection, there wasn't an overly traumatic event at a dairy farm in my childhood that made me this way. It just happened and I saw the light. The light said "Cheese sucks" and I believed the light.

An ancient relic does exist proving that I actually did eat cheese (I will eat it on pizza, but I'm not happy about it) at one point. Somewhere in a box of family photos, there is a photograph of my father and his son, yours truly as a wee lad, and I'm holding a piece of cheese. More accurately, I am holding a piece of cheese and I'm not cursing someone out, I'm not wearing an air-tight hazardous materials outfit while flipping some unsuspecting person an obscene hand gesture, or dousing it with Holy water. No, the cheese and I seem to be co-existing peacefully. Times change and this is a classic example of that change.

Along the path of life, I became nearly militant in my hatred for cheese. I stop just short of pulling a gun on the cheesy world, but if the powers that be do not stop tainting my food with the crap, I am going to snap one day and it will definitely make the evening news.

If you go to a restaurant, it is generally assumed that you will want cheese on every item, including your beverage. Why would I want something on any food item, such as a hamburger, that smells like an unholy combination of feet and ass while sporting the appearance of a veneer of intense snot? I haven't the slightest clue why anyone would subject themselves to it. Then again, I don't understand the appeal of playing Russian Roulette either.

If you go as far as politely and clearly stating that you do not want cheese on a particular item, they will automatically put it on there for you. They do not want good things for you. I guess they ask themselves "What kind of deviant would have the absolute audacity to order food without cheese? Perhaps they're confused." I am that deviant and in this case, I am certainly not confused. I am unapologetic and I am belligerent.

When someone over-rules my decision to go without cheese, the scene can get ugly. A rather peaceful and mellow person immediately transforms into a raving lunatic with a vocabulary like a sailor with Tourette's Syndrome. The barometric pressure and environmental conditions are actually altered from the sheer weight of profanity hitting the air. Natural disasters are like a trip to the park compared to the fallout from the outburst.

Due to countless incidents of some jackass putting cheese on my food against my will, I always have to double check the goods before giving them the benefit of the doubt. The culinary version of looking before I leap. It's bad enough to see cheese on my food, but even worse to take a bite of a tainted piece of food and have the taste buds go into a state of emergency. As soon as the dairy intruder is detected, a complete meltdown is imminent. It would be advisable to take cover and assume the safety position associated with natural disasters where you basically offer your ass to the skies so that it can drop stuff on it, roll down your back and crush your skull.

In order to avoid the wrath and the aftermath, I simply say to those in the food industry that I mean it when I say that I do not want cheese on my food. I try to be respectful and damn near pleasant until my foodstuff gets disrespected with something incredibly unpleasant. It's a simple concept:

--Listen to the customer. They know what they want and more importantly, they know what they don't want.

--Assemble the meal in the way that it was ordered.

--Do not deviated from the first two steps, because someone could possibly snap and go all Pulp Fiction on your ass and you'd deserve it, cheese monger.

It would be crass to say which restaurant is the absolute worst at (expletive deleted) up an order with cheese. I would never do such a thing. If they have a problem with it, then instruct the employees to get the order right. Until then, they can kiss my ass.

So the next time you're considering what to eat at a restaurant and you're peering or leering at the menu, look at just how many things are served with some form of cheese attached and think of the hell that is my life. And yes, you're allowed to laugh at me in my own private Hell.

(This rant is in no way sponsored by the Dairy Farmer of America)

From 1995, we give you "Spongy"

The Ties that Bind

Sounds like I’m talking about a string cheese potty incident that went bad. But I’m not.

I don’t deny what is obvious to all who know me, and many of you who do not. I am a kid. Life has enough drama and icky stuff in it and I aim to enjoy myself when I can. Now, and this sounds like a personals ad, I know when to get serious and be a big boy, but I also know how to play. I like to play. I’m good at playing. I strongly feel like one should do what they are good at doing. And I do. I play. Wee! (Oooh, that reminds me, be right back.)

(Whew!)

So as I adjust my Reboot action figures here on my desk, let me get back to where I was before. (Ringo, gimme back my Megabyte would you? No, you did NOT have him first, and he’s MINE!!) Where was I, yes, playing is essential to building social skills that will last a lifetime. Learn to share today and tomorrow you can play with whatever the hell you want and quickly remind the owner about the last time you let them borrow your crap. Works every time.

Looking back, I can fondly remember summers in the small town in which I still live. Well, I cannot forget from where it is that I come from, and the toys that I got from the people who love me. (Could somebody turn off that radio?) After getting baked and burnt, while out flirting with the girls in the hot sun, I’d dart home for lunch. Lunch back then always consisted of a Tupperware cup full of chipped-ice and Dr. Pepper, a plate of Rold Gold if we had em, and a couple of hot dogs. Spear em with a big fork; fire up the gas stove, and oh yeah! Back then, like now timing was everything. If you timed it just right, you could flop down in the floor with everything you needed (beverage, food, paper towel) just in time to watch Courtship of Eddie's Father. Even then I knew I wanted to be a Daddy. Even then I knew I would have a son. Even now, I tear up thinking what a lucky dude I am. No, really. (Ouch, my eyes.)

Skipping ahead a few years, but stopping back just six years ago, my life grew and changed in ways that I wouldn’t have imagined possible. Leaning on my years of experience working in a children’s psychiatric facility, coupled with my love for children and my desire to begin an action figure collection unparalleled in any Toy Story universe, I became a father.

Ah, toys. I have to say that when you can leave work at work, finish your shopping and your house work before your little dude comes home, so that all that’s left to do is PLAY well, that’s the best. My son is stuck with me, so I gotta give him all I can. Sometimes that means I have to make sacrifices. Sometimes I have to close the door in the face of that long line of women waiting to call on me, because its time to play. I turn my back on the wild and crazy social scene of our wicked little town, and turn my gaze upon Hot Wheels, Kerplunk, the Xbox and action figures. Oh, we don’t have them all, but damn it if we don’t try.

We’ve got your Reboot, your Speed Racer, your Battle of the Planet, and your Kim Possible action figures. We’ve got ImagineNext action figures. We’ve got McDonalds, Rally’s and Burger King action figures. We even have Jimmy Neutron and that wicked cool rocket car. Oh the times we’ve had with Jimmy and that rocket car!


I gave the rocket car to my son for Christmas that year. That rocket car that was embedded in an unbelievable protective fortress meant to defy even the boy genius himself. My Swiss Army knife alone wasn’t even up to the task. After cutting the nice, clear, Scotch Tape circle stickers that hold the box together, I had to cut more clear tape to allow the cardboard tray, to which the rocket was attached, to slide freely from the box. Now all I had left was the two bakers dozen bread ties and 8 plastic screws to go. The home stretch. “Here son, open this present. Oh, done already? Here, why don’t you open this one from SANTA? No! I’m not done yet, but I haven’t given up hope. I’m going in. If I’m not out in an hour, call 911 and say something about ‘Annie, Annie, are you ok?’ and someone will come right away!”

I know what you’re thinking Christmas isn’t about getting presents. Christmas isn’t about toys. But neither is it about delaying the toy factor with boxes, ribbons, bows, more boxes, tape, WIRE for gosh sakes, and a kagillion plastic screws that cause widespread panic in the streets. We could have played much more quickly had the fine folks that boxed Jimmy’s jimmy, I mean rocket, had been previously informed that Your Packaging Sucks!!

The groundhog version of Rodin's The Thinker. Sorry, ladies, no gratuitous ass shot this time. 

Tube Shake Boogie

The classic toothpaste has been around since Biblical times. In recent years, the package people have tried to update it into a pump and various other forms of toothpaste distribution. But it all goes back to the tube...for better or worse.

You can drop coin on a new tube of your favorite flavor and blend of perks. It will serve you well for a while. You will co-exist in harmony with your tooth-cleansing pal. It will be there to say howdy to you in the morning, it will watch over you in your slumber, and all times in between. You could take your tube of toothpaste to dinner and a movie, but people would talk. Talk is cheap, after all, and people spend freely. Can your ego take that kind of beating? Besides, your tube o' paste would give you dirty looks if you even think about that $36 movie theater size box of Junior Mints.

Life will be peachy, but eventually, your tube will betray you. It is a gradual thing, usually beginning with that farting ejaculation of paste. It will wait until the worst possible moment to knife you in the back like a jilted lover. Even if you forgo the big ass box of mints, you're setting yourself up for heartache. You remain loyal to your tube even as it ages and goes into a state of decline. The golden years of toothpaste consumption can be an emotional hayride. You ignore the seemingly painful strained and grunted last days of the tube and convince yourself that it will last forever. It won't, so get used to it.

One morning when you are already running late, the caboose of the toothpaste choo-choo will pass you by. You'll find yourself in a state of panic while trying to McGuyver one last blop of paste from the tube. You'll roll it up like a deviant contortionist trying to perform indecent acts to no avail. You'll mash it flat in a hydraulic press desperately trying to coax out even the slightest trace of toothpaste. You may even go as far as performing emergency surgery on the tube itself, but forget it, champ, you're not going to get it out. It's a fluoride hostage situation in the making.

Stumbling upon the realization that their collective packaging sucked, the toothpaste manufacturers decided to introduce several other forms of flavored-fluoride delivery devices with various levels of success and suckcess. But when it gets to the dregs of the tube, your paste will betray you every time.

Keep your feet on the stump and keep reaching for the stars. Happy Groundhog's Day from your friends at Your Packaging Sucks.