Corporate Thievery: A Letter to Frito Lay

Dear Frito Lay,

 

I recently purchased one of your 99 cent bags of Nacho Doritos. Imagine my surprise when I opened the bag and discovered it to be less than 1/3 full. Really, Frito Lay? Really? What in the hell is going on?  You fill the bag with air to give it the impression of being full. I understand the necessity from your warped and evil corporate world view. No one in their right mind would pay for an empty bag of chips. But that is exactly what we’re getting. I know that chip companies have been employing this shady tactic for some time, but this doesn’t make it right.

I know times are tough and the economy is shit. But you can’t tell me that your product costs so much to manufacture that you have to cut portions and raise costs to make a profit. That’s just greedy. That’s just you wanting to take every last cent from the John Q. Publics that devour your unhealthy chemically concocted chips. Is it really that necessary to rob good, honest people of what little money remains to them?

Honestly, your products aren’t all that great. And to pay 99 cents for what amounts to a 25 cent bag of chips is more than a little infuriating.  It’s deplorable. I won’t bother asking how you sleep at night because I know: on your king-sized mattresses stuffed with the profits of your ill-gotten gains. All the while wallowing in Cool Ranch and Extreme Nacho crumbs and relaxing to the aromatic therapy of a Buffalo and Bleu Cheese scented candle. Yeah, Frito Lay, that’s how you roll, alright.  And that’s fine. We still live in America and you still have the freedom to roll any way you want. But I won’t be rolling with your cadre of thieves and marketing con artists. Keep your overpriced bags of air. I won’t be buying them any more.

 

Sincerely,

Jason

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About Universal Shift

I am the Sonata Unusual. I coat myself with some obtuse angle too far below zero to become any warmer. I create motivation, activate schemas, moisten gardens with scents of natural honeydew. Construct this meaning, you sleepy flock. Silence your singing—despairing contortions out of tune. Shatter the brittle butterfly glass with your hideous wailing. I am born of my god’s imagination. When I die I shall meet him. For there are many things to discuss over tea…or scotch.

Posted on May 13, 2013, in Author, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 2 Comments.

  1. Princess KickaPoo

    you tell them crooked B*stards!

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