Adrian Korpel
Dear Mr. CEO,
I realize that you are extremely busy, and would no doubt like to pass this letter on to one of your minions. However, as company president it is you who bears the ultimate responsibility for the pain and suffering caused by your OREO cookies. Therefore I urge you to read on.
No doubt you'll know the cookies I refer to. They consist of two blackish disks, held together by sugary glue. I used to eat your cookies frequently when I was a kid, but haven't touched them since. Until last week, that is.
Last week I found myself on a plane traveling to a meeting in Cleveland. I was sitting in the center seat between a pregnant woman on the aisle side and a fat man with prostate trouble near the window. My body was scrunched up with my feet resting on my briefcase, as the overhead compartments were full. You are probably unfamiliar with that situation, but I assure you that it is very uncomfortable.
Shortly before landing, we were offered lunch, or more precisely, the metaphor for lunch that the airlines hand out these days. My little cardboard box contained a fat-free turkey sandwich, two lettuce leaves, a radish and two OREO cookies in individual wrappers. It is the cookies that I want to talk to you about
I assume you are familiar with the little cellophane wrapper your cookies come in. It is blue and white with your company's red logo hidden away in a corner. The text is simple: OREO CHOCOLATE SANDWICH COOKIES. On the bottom part of the wrapper is a list of ingredients: riboflavin, niacin, thiamin mononitrate, the usual chemical cacophony. The lettering here is extremely small -- to save your customers anxiety I imagine.
At this point in time I no longer remember why I decided to eat one of your cookies; too much has happened. Maybe I was overcome by nostalgia. Such things do occur, forgotten images come to mind (I once had a girlfriend who used to unscrew your cookies to get at the sugar with her tongue.) At any rate I made the fateful decision to partake, and proceeded to pull on the wrapper where it said PULL HERE.
Now, usually one finds a little tab on which to pull, after which the wrapper sort of unfolds. In the case of your cookies the "HERE" in "PULL HERE" refers to nothing in particular. It is a generic instruction, of ritual significance possibly, but not functional. After several unsuccessful attempts to tear the cellophane, I decided to use my pocketknife, which was in my right jeans pocket.
I now want you to visualize my situation, as it might, for example, be sketched out in some detail by an experienced lawyer. As told before, I was sitting scrunched up between two voluminous people. This time, however. I was restricted upwards by my luncheon tray yet. The person in the next row, having finished his lunch, had leaned his chair backward and gone to sleep. My actual maneuvering space had become negligible; my posture was that of a praying mantis. To try and get a pocketknife out of the pocket of tight jeans in those circumstances is madness. Nevertheless I tried.
What follows is not easy to describe, and I would rather not dwell on it. Suffice it to say that I ended up with my hand deep in the left jeans pocket of the pregnant lady sitting next to me. It was a mortifying experience, the more so since I was twitching my fingers in order to locate my pocketknife.
Explanations are of course insufficient in situations like this. Besides, an account starting with the urge to unwrap a cookie does not carry conviction. I apologized as best I could, glad that the lady had not started screaming, but such relations as we had remained strained, and our small talk came to an end.
It could be argued that I should now have given up, but my wrath at your product made me obstinate. This time I tried to tear the cellophane apart with my teeth. In retrospect, I see that the situation had its scary aspects. There is something unsettling in the spectacle of a large man, wedged into a center seat, tearing at an Oreo cookie like a lion mauling a carcass. Witnesses tell me that I actually made growling noises while vigorously shaking my head. That may explain why my pregnant neighbor started crying and the fat man in the window seat launched his preemptive attack.
I bear you no grudge, Mr. CEO. Life is too short for that, and punitive damages just cause pain without cure. It may interest you though that various kind people, hearing my story, are making donations to a special amelioration fund in my name. It is located at the First National Bank; you may want to contribute. I trust we will never meet in court.
Sincerely, AK.
