So the other day I’m walking through one of those fitness exschmos where they used to give out protein bars but now they only give out tiny slivers of protein bars and I spot something suspicious: A box of protein bar chunks, bigger than slivers but not quite full bars. The weird thing is that they’re not cut; they’re like fully formed mini protein bars. Anyway, I jump at the chance to taste the incredibly imaginatively named ’2:1′ bar. Oh brother. Who is the mad scientist/marketing wanker who came up with this one? “We’re the only bar that has a protein to carb ratio of two to one,” remarks the physically unimposing resident nerd whose male pattern baldness also appears to be dominating his hair in a perfect 2:1 ratio.
“I’m going to review your bar and put it on the net,” I warn them, “so pick your best flavor.”
Like Donald Trump and his cronies on The Apprentice, the dorkasaurus and the two unattractive women at the booth briefly put their three ugly Cerberus heads together and announce, “Almond Caramel Crunch” in unison. I stare at them suspiciously for a moment. And then it hits me. Holy fuckwits, Batman! How the hell did the three ugliest people in the entire building all wind up in the same booth? Are they too cheap to shell out $50 for a hot fitness skank with implants and a thong to stand there for ten hours?
I bite into the bar, with these three people now staring intently at my mouth as it chews. And chews. And chews. The bar sticks to every corner of my mouth. I continue chewing as my eyes frantically search for a bottle of anything to wash this shit down. Mr. Propecia seems to sense my desperation but for some strange reason feels compelled to offer up a cheerful “We’re the best-selling bar in the country right now!”
“Manks a fumkin lot,” I reply. Here I am practically choking on his shitty bar, wondering what an improvement it will make when I spit it out onto his face, and this twink has the nerve to fabricate some phony sales statistics. For fuck’s sake, if this piece of insoluble dog crap is the best-selling protein bar in the country, Obama has fucked up America even worse than I thought.
With great determination and effort, I somehow get down the last of the bar and spend a few moments trying to trigger my saliva glands to get the remnants of this sludge down my esophagus. I sense that my audience senses my disappointment. They don’t even offer a full bar or suggest a different flavor for me to try. ‘FAIL’ is written all over their faces.
I quickly place the odds that in precisely one year the three of them will be unemployed at exactly 2:1.
Rating: ** (Two Stars) out of ***** (five)
I’ve tasted worse but never in the presence of such misplaced pride in a crappy product.
