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Pretzel Logic
In a Sad Sack We Trust
While in the grocery store check out line I glance at
the viewing window on
the front panel of the football-sized bag of sourdough
pretzels in my hands.
All I can see inside is the back of the bag, about four inches deep.
I shake up the puffy sack and a few of the old salts pop upward into view,
like they are toasted Muppet characters ready to put on a show.
The inside top of the plasticized bag is empty, save for the expanded gases
that give
the whole illusion of life. The clerk sees my bag and laughs nervously at the sight.
The farmer's wife tells me that I should go and get myself another one.
The grizzled man behind me gazes into the sack's blank window
as if it's a magic
eight-ball. He sees the answer and tells me that I been
screwed.
The bagger volunteers to run back and get me a decent bag. I
beg off.
This bag is my proof. It is too late now, I have looked behind the
cellophane curtain and I can see clearly that the cupboard is bare.
This bag of mostly air was manufactured, distributed, advertised,
sold and
delivered as the genuine goods. Really, though, it's only another
dubious
product of our modern marketing machinations--It's short on substance,
with baked and half-twisted truths, proffering itself as a good, true and
legitimate reason for me to cough-up my cash and tote it on home with me--
showing
the organization my support, perhaps. It is too late now to be
caught-up in the
argument of half full or half empty.
Too late indeed, mister twisted pretzel guy. Your crap is out of the bag.
Your bubble is bust. We can all see now that in reality the logical truth is
that
its is all just a great big half-crassed ploy! A con. We been had. No
recourse.
Popping the air out of the sack and ruminating on a few
of the old salty chunks
of pretzel and crumb, I quickly come to the
realization that I'm sitting here
holding a worthless, barren sack of old salts. My money is long gone, the tasty
morsels eaten.
The bag
is now an unfilled package of lies, hidden-truths and broken
promises. Has the great American hope become a twice-baked sack
of hardened,
twisted dough that's salted with innuendo, baked in the back rooms,
pumped up with a steady stream of hot air and put up for sale at
eye level in
our friendly corner super store? Shelf life? No problem.
Buyer beware. There is no small print.
Tell me it isn't so.
Ain't it a shame that it is in these sadly depleted sacks we
trust?
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