Snapple Deception

I found myself staring at a Snapple bottle today. I was simply trying to avoid eye contact with my depressed friend, for fear he’d notice my glazed-over expression. Does he really need an audience if he's just going to whine “I don’t understand why she doesn’t care about me!" over and over again?

Look, I don't know! Maybe she doesn't care because you whine like a bit@h. Just suck it up and go sleep with someone else...that’ll show her…

Okay, back to my Snapple. On the front of the bottle was the phrase "Made From the Best Stuff on Earth". Cool, I think. That makes me healthy. And that makes me happy. Because I like drinking Snapple, and it's a damn sight easier than getting on a treadmill.

Sadly, that’s not the conclusion of this story. My curiosity usually leads me down the path of destruction, and this was no exception. I made the mistake of examining the ingredients on the label (because reading words like phenyoynealene was still more interesting than listening to my friend).

I should’ve settled for ignorance.

Do you know what's in this stuff? Of course you don’t! Because if you did, you’d be out picketing Snapple headquarters and beating that tubby Snapple lady with her own arm, instead of reading this. Among the ingredients? Acesulfame potassium sweetener, phenyoynealene, and red dye #12.

I realize with pollution and overpopulation we're depleting the Earth's resources, but is this really the best we can do? Is phenyoynealene the "Best Stuff on Earth"? Doubtful. How many times did Granny call you down to eat your phenyoynealene so you could grow big and strong?

But forget about Snapple, because my brain bounced to something new and equally irritating. Something my sister did last week. Apparently something HUGE was going down at her office that had her stressed out and working overtime. She reported that everyone was up in arms, freaking out over this Big Thing that had happened…but she couldn’t tell me what was. It was top secret. My sister, I should mention, does not work at NASA. Not for the NSA or any other governmental body. She works for a nonprofit foundation that has the classification level of, say, Tele-Tubby Headquarters. Also, my sister tends to think ridiculous things are secrets, like the color she’s planning to paint her kitchen (mauve), or the name she has chosen for her future child (Aubrey). So it’s probably safe to assume the Big Thing is someone in her office stubbing a toe, shouting an expletive, or receiving written discipline from HR.

Problem is, she keeps bringing it up. Every conversation now includes her making reference to this Big Thing…the Toe-Stubbing Fiasco of 2008 or whatever.

She knows me well enough not to share confidential information (see above disclosure of salacious secrets about her kitchen and child). I’m 27 years old and I still ruin my own Christmas every year by peeking at my gifts. I also tell my loved ones what I got them the minute I buy their gift. I have the mental discipline of an orangutan. So don't bring secrets to my doorstep! Tell your stoic, type-A, accountant friend if you want a respectful reaction. Tell your coma-bound Aunt Marge. Tell your lawyer. Tell Oprah. Do not, do not, do not, tell ME.

This is up on my list with folks who say, "hey, can I ask you a question?" They generally execute this move when you’ve not a moment to spare -- at work, where you have to be not only efficient, but nice. (Unless, of course, you work at the Post Office where employees receive bonus pay for each act of asshole-dom...but that's an entirely different category on my list, so let's not digress). Anyway these people walk up, ASKing if they can ASK you a question. Well, you just did, so there's one, dipshit. Got another? Cause the clock is ticking. And hey, if I don’t answer, will you just sit there waiting for me to grant you permission or will you boldly go forth with something resembling an interrogative phrase? How long must this whole process take for you to be satisfied?

Somehow, I manage to get through about 50 questions in my head before they can roll through one out loud. It’s astounding.

And with that, my bitch-fest is over.