Sunday, November 11, 2001

The "Written Word" has a certain gravitas that supercedes the medium. Everyone who's ever made up a price tag for baked beans knows this, as in some way do all the people who've ever bought baked beans. (Who the hell ARE they, anyway? Does anybody consider that shit to be food?)

Anyway, maybe I've led a sheltered existence, but I've never ever seen anyone try to haggle over the tins of baked beans down at the supermarket, - OTOH you can bet your sweet ass if there was no price written up there on the shelf or stuck to each can then no-one'd ever get out of the damned place for all the queueing. Just imagine the body count! It'd be enough to make Arnie squint.

Baked Beans are my favourite bugbear of marketing as propaganda; the ultimate proof of the perfidious lies of the slickest professional whores since the lawyers became respectable. (Huh??? When did that</b> happen?)

You'd be better rewarded, nutritiously speaking, if you ate the paper label wrapped around each can.

It'd be cheaper, by a substantial margin, to just buy reams of paper directly and eat it with Tomato Sauce.

And much MUCH more is spent on marketing the product than on making, shipping, or selling it.

So, for one day only, my theme song has to be Baked Beans, by Mother Goose

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