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Friday, August 31, 2007
Things, they are gonna change, part 2
Listen up, manufactures. Future Ultimate Emperor of the Universe speaking.
Common sense, that's all I'm asking, that and a little attention to detail. Maybe a dollop of honest concern for the people who buy and use your product. I have trouble with my hands, I don't have a lot of feeling in the left one and I just don't have the fine motor control or hand strength I used to, and additionally I am developing arthritis. I got this way defending you. So, when it takes me ten minutes and a sharp knife to pry that Goddammed piece of shrink-wrapped, Kevlar strength, boa-constrictor of a plastic seal off the lid, so I can open a new jar of pickles - well, it pisses me off. Pisses. Me. Off. Damn, what is that stuff made from anyway? Nuclear weapons aren't protected as well as my friggin' pickles. My feelings on this matter are important to you, Manufactures, because as I've mentioned elsewhere, I'm making a list. You don't want to be on that list, believe me. I am a small vindictive person and there is no reason to suspect that I will change for the better after I become Emperor of the Universe. In fact it is likely that unlimited power will go to my head, power corrupts and Absolute Vodka corrupts absolutely. Or something like that. Whatever. Anyway the gist of this warning is that you can expect me to TAKE IT OUT ON YOU! For starters expect to be deported to the phlebotinum mines on Pluto (which, after I am Emperor, will be reinstated to it's rightful status as a Full Planet. I may even make it the Imperial Capital just to spite the Imperial Astronomy Organization. Certain small minded astronomers are already on my list). These mines are in hard vacuum, here you will slave away digging the precious ore from the frozen ground in leaky penal system spacesuits - and all replacement oxygen tanks will be sealed with your stupid anti-tamper plastic seals. Now imagine the warning bell pinging in your ears as the last few precious milliliters of O2 drain from your tanks, and you all clumsy and bumbling in your thick spacesuit gloves trying to peel that piece of shit off the next lifesaving tank. It'll help if you imagine my maniacal laughter ringing over the radio, a vindictive counterpoint to your panicked breathing. Fear. Terror. Regret that you didn't listen to me when you had the chance. Oh, woe is you!
But it doesn't have to be this way. A couple perforations in that plastic seal, a pull tag (with a long enough string that people like me can get a grip on it. Seriously, a half-assed solution pisses me off even more than indifference), something. It's your life, I'm sure you'll think of something.
Update: Okay, obviously we're going to need to add a subsection to the Imperial Constitution, Article X: Don't Be A Dick, that deals specifically with packaging, as in "Don't Be A Dick With The Dammed Packaging."
Attention, McCORMICK & CO, INC, of Hunt Valley, Maryland, manufacturer of spices. Are you just trying to piss me off? Did you not read the above Imperial Directions and Warning? Well, pack your long-johns, boys, you're going to Pluto. Which one of you geniuses thought that sealing the little pastic 0.5 Oz jar of Dried Parsley Flakes with an industrial strength manhole-cover glued, I say glued with construction cement apparently, to the jar underneath the little plastic strainer doo-dad was a good idea? I want a name, or the entire Board of Directors will never see this side of Jupiter orbit again. Seriously, underneath the plastic strainer? Which can't be removed with anything less than a friggin' back-hoe. Then once you get the dammed strainer doo-dad off, you've got to deal with the seal. No way to get a grip on it, no way to punch a hole in it, no way to get it off without a tool. Are you daft? or do you just plain loath your customers? Is that what the problem is? This is precisely why otherwise benevolent Ultimate Emperors of the Universe became Evil Overlords. Little Manny Noriega was probably a nice guy until he couldn't get the stinkin' cap off his tube of Clearasil Ultra. And Noriega was nothing but a pissant, imagine how I'll be if you don't pull your head out of your ass. I want that name, and I want it on my desk by morning, or it's going to get mighty cold, boys, mighty cold.