Some things in life serve only to induce rage. No matter how small these annoyances may be, they are never insignificant. 'Rant List' is the chronicle of one self-loathing narcissist's seemingly unending pettiness.

Monday, 29 November 2010

34. The emptiness of crisp packets

^ "MAX deep ridge"!? That's what she said. I think. I don't know, I don't do innuendo very well...

You know that feeling you get, when you crave a bit of a potato-based snack and only something crispy will suffice? It's a strong one, so you take a detour in to the nearest newsagent and there it is; a big packet of Doritos. Lovely. The bag's pretty generously sized; there's a lot of spicy, corn-laden pseudo-nachos in there. You could save some for later. I mean, a bag of that voolume is really intended for several people. You could divvy a few out amongst your friends and still have some left over. So, you drop the newsagent one of your precious pound sterlings and leave the shop, excited about the snackery that is about to unfold.

And then you open the bag. A waft of tasty smelling air escapes and you excitedly examine the contents of your purchase. Four sullen tortilla chips and a lot of silver foil. If you're lucky, maybe a small pile of conglomerate flavourings at the bottom.

I. What? Gaaaaaaaaaah.

Words cannot express my disappointment when this happens. To this day, I naively expect big bags of crisps to contain lots of crisps - at least an amount in line with how big the bag is - but all I find within is Kate Moss' daily calorific intake (I'm making the somewhat crass assumption that a single Twiglet is too much for the Moss to take). I am a man, not a fashionable stick of a woman, and I demand my crisp packets be filled with "food" that will permanently damage my body. I am sick of bags of foil that gleam with disappointment, their shiny innards reflecting my crushed culinary hopes. My inner child needs nourishment.

(N.B. I was a fat child).

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