It used to be if you wanted to get your fix of stupid bots partaking in incredibly degrading acts of desperate attention-seeking, you had to settle for your weekly fix of That’s Incredible. But we have advanced since that time. Today, you can just take a gander at the hot hashtag hullabaloo on the side of your Twitter account, and then mosey on over to YouTube to witness future generations of retarded leaders chowing down on Tide detergent pods. Y’know, I don’t think relying on a publicly funded pension to support me in my dotage is such a good idea.
Funny thing, though – when you parse the events of this narrative down to its root, the whole thing sounds eerily familiar. Haven’t I read something like this before?
In the beginning (2011, to be exact), Proctor & Gamble created a heavenly new product for the earth: detergent in pod form. Gone were the days when laundry loads without form would be void of a decent cleaning, with concentrated liquid-release soap moving upon the face of the waters. P&G received enthusiastic acclaim during product testing among potential users, and they saw that it was a very good thing they were bringing to market.
P&G did a strange thing, though. They gave their potentially deadly toxic pods an attractive orange-and-blue swirl design atop an otherwise clear shell – meant to coincide with the colors of the Tide brand, and to give their product a pleasing aesthetic look, consumers being morons for caring about things like that. Still, this particular design looked especially alluring. Even…..delectable. Like frosted donuts or candy or something! Supposedly. Personally, I can’t see it. Must be an autistic thing.
But don’t worry! Tide laid down the law! One simple law, nothing more. ‘Of this product, ye shall not eat. In the day that thou partake, thou run the risk of a myriad of side effects, including death.’
Well, that didn’t work so hot.
Within two years, CNN was doing stories about the new epidemic: Mensa-level kids chowing down on this delicious new treat. Pediatricians were writing blog posts about the phenomenon. The first wave of Tide pod memes hit the internet.
So at this point, you would think maybe P&G would pull their cash cow and redesign it in blander form? To stave off potential lawsuits from the clueless, if nothing else? Nope.
Oh sure, Tide put a ‘double lock’ on their boxes so that children couldn’t get at them so easily, but as anyone who has parental locks on the Netflix account knows, kids are natural-born safecrackers. In 2015, The Onion published a piece written by a toddler who was determined to get his grubby paws on one of those naughty snacks no matter what. This thing was entering the popular culture in a big way.
P&G’s primary response was to reiterate that one all-pervading law: ‘Do not partake.‘ It encompassed many forms – new warning labels, ‘Beware!’ videos online, spokesmen appearing on major news outlets to deliver the encomium face to face – but the basic strategy remained.
In December 2017, teenagers who spent the preceding couple of years snickering at the lameness of the ice bucket challenge, growing too obese to comfortably partake in the planking challenge, and ruing that they didn’t take part in the cinnamon challenge while it was still suitably dank reinvigorated the not-quite-dormant pod eating challenge to punch up their vacuous Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram accounts. This cretinous communion, despite all the admonitions from corporate and medical sources on high, was suddenly a bigger thing than ever before.
As I’m sure you’ve guessed by now, this entire scenario plays out as a continual repetition of the fall of Adam and Eve, with the pod serving as a most beguiling forbidden fruit. Here’s the dirty little secret you aren’t supposed to clue in on, though: this process has been very deliberately constructed, executed, and encouraged.
For in the wake of this latest irruption of sudsy snacking, everything that could possibly be done to implant this ‘delicious’ meme in the public mind has come about. A bakery in North Carolina has begun to offer donuts coated with Tide pod-colored icing, while a cocktail website has proffered interested sots how to mix an orange, white, and blue-layered Tide Pod shot. Both venues take great pains to remind everybody that these are meant to be substitutes for the real toxic deal, and to warn impressionable tots to stay far, far away from Mommy’s laundry room, though! Tide itself has brought out a new ad featuring Patriots star Rob Gronkowski to warn kids away from eating pods – because, y’know, I was never tempted to drink Miller Lite after viewing ads of jocks pushing it down my throat. Prior to the meme’s resurgence, The Onion revisited it in July with an article on how Tide was introducing a new sour apple-flavored pod – thus proving the already-old adage that it’s impossible to differentiate Onion satire from real news anymore. And of course, when predictably ill-informed and ham-fisted calls began issuing forth for teh guvmint to ban Tide pods altogether, liborgtarians had to counter with a principled canard disagreeing with soap consumption but heroically offering to defend to the death the right of anyone to engage in such a harmless pastime. Think your children can’t pick up on all this tacit wink-wink nudge-nudging? Give your head a shake.
Proctor & Gamble has been in the advertising/public relations game for a while now. You do not get to be an industry leader in that field if you do not have an expert understanding of debased human nature. The fact that they have refused to so much as redesign their product to a more unsavory beige appearance to curtail this craze says it all. This is demonstrated even in the product’s name, with a pod being redolent of new life – be it fresh peas, a cocoon, or Invasion of the Body Snatchers – and thus a most apt descriptor of this fertile gourd. P&G gets to play both God, as creator of the product, and the serpent, as enabler (if not instigator) of an unlawful use thereof. This is entirely in keeping with the company’s long-time notoriety as a haven of occultism. To what purpose is all of this? A sick joke? A mass sociological experiment? A perverse ritual? We may never know for certain. We can say for certain that this is the theonomy of man as opposed to the theonomy of God, and it is abominable.
As a codicil: doubtless many an alienist sophisticate is joining the haw-haw chorus, thanking God that they share nothing in common with these pod-crazed fools.
They have no right to do so.
For are they not guilty of a similar, though far more serious, folly?
Have they not been told time and time again, for centuries past, that their precepts of Babylonian amalgamation are base, wicked, vile, even an idol unto itself? And do they not continue to revel in their rebellion, shamefully exposing their obsequiousness to the world?
There’s one crucial difference between them and the pod-eaters, though. The latter are unknowing dupes of a demonic corporate parody of infallibility. The former are willing conspirators against the Living God. I fear for their souls far, far more.
There ain’t no soap potent enough to cleanse their sin away.