For the past couple of years I’ve watched your Jamie Lee Curtis commercials and never cared one way or another about your existence. Yogurt isn’t really one of those things a person can get amped up about. Sure, you can create a badass trailer for yogurt starring George Clooney, an anthropomorphic explosion, and a giant robot that can break dance, but in the end, the trailer will be nothing more than a movie about yogurt. Yogurt is boring. I don’t want to speak for those out there that shovel a spoonful of yogurt in their mouths and are magically transported to a fantasy land filled with jaunty, flute-playing goat people that play “Rock You like A Hurricane” like it’s nobody’s business and rainbows that never miss an opportunity to tell them how awesome they are. I feel no emotion towards yogurt. The worst yogurt I’ve ever had enveloped me with a sense of disinterest. The best yogurt I’ve ever had shrouded me in a creamy, strawberry-infused apathy. Yogurt is just so goddamn boring that if someone told me the world’s entire yogurt supply has been depleted due to mankind’s pigheaded unwillingness to explore alternative forms of yogurt culturing, I would probably respond with an emphatic nap that might include some enraged, unconscious butt scratching.
However, this all changed earlier this week when I ate (slurped?) a thing of Activia yogurt. I am now filled with the rage of a vengeful god.
Activia, do you know what a nuclear bomb is? Of course you don’t. You’re just a bunch of dumbass bacteria cultures that care not for advanced technological warfare. I’m certain you don’t watch the History Channel. You’re probably more of a Lifetime kind of collection of bacteria cultures. Anyway, a nuclear bomb is a weapon so powerful, so destructive that it can create Godzillas. You, Activia yogurt, are the creamy, cup-portioned version of a nuclear bomb. My bowels are like Tokyo. Your bacteria cultures are like Godzilla. My fecal matter is like the screaming denizens of Tokyo that run for their lives at the mere sight of Godzilla. (I’m yet undecided on what role Mothra plays in this).
Your taste is nothing to write about, unless I felt like writing a post filled entirely with the onomatopoetic Zz’s of a person snoring. My taste buds have been more excited by the taste of morning breath that resulted from a night of chain smoking and licking dirty, patchouli-marinated hippie feet (an activity that, believe it or not, is considered a “charitable donation” and is a tax write off). If rain soaked cardboard licensed out its flavor for a line of potato chips and microwaveable appetizers, I think you’d have the makings of a lucrative copyright lawsuit on your hands. But that wasn’t the problem. The real problem came in a few hours after I ingested you and found that my ass was attempting to flip itself inside out, much to my chagrin, which is a word I’m pretty sure has “jaw-clenching poop sobbing” as its first definition in Webster’s. The phrase “Fire In The Hole” now seems as though it were meticulously fashioned by Nostradamus as a warning to us modern folk of the dangers of a yogurt that promises to make us poop, but neglects to inform us that it will also drive us to praying to gods that not even the most devout among us belief exist just for some shred of assistance – assistance we hope comes in the form of a shotgun wielding maniac that breaks in to our bathrooms and shoots us right in the brain to end the torment.
Activia, you are pure misery wrapped in attractive labeling and marketed to middle-aged, suburbanite women that don’t have enough time in their busy day to breakdown and consume whicker furniture for their daily source of fiber. You’re a healthier version of food poisoning. You are what happens when Don Draper scores a big win and gets put in charge of the dysentery account.
God, I hate you so much.
P.S. – I’ll see you again when I’m 45.