I needed a lifebelt. I found one. It was the slogan on the wall that saved me from ultimate drowning.
They sell doughnuts made from sugar, gynecologist transfats and anguish. Their product, while endurable to the palate, is not kind to the gut. Eat the recommended dozen of these malevolent pastries and see if I’m not right. Look down. There you go. Your helium stomach is cussing at you.
The franchise is “cult”; a brand that evokes unique passion among its customers. It is a thing that causes a person to dribble like, say, a slow teen at a Maroon 5 after-party. Ew. Like a crossdresser in GaGa’s undies drawer. See. That’s a nicer image.
I am suspicious of cults and “belonging” of all kinds. This is possibly due to the sheer number of organisations from which I have been ejected. Starting with a beginner’s ballet class, throughout which I preferred to pick my nose than fouetté, the habit of not belonging is lifelong.
But. The Krispy Kreme store is so fresh and honest looking. This is what a scientologist’s hospital must look like. It’s a deceptively clean-looking beacon and it always makes me feel like a moth.
I wanted to belong. I hovered.
“You’re never alone,” said the sign, “With a box of Krispy Kreme.”
I flew the fuck away.
Marketing, as we know, is a mucky business. The practise of tying social and emotional need to product is hardly new. But, as a former colleague of mine was wont to say, there’s a difference between scratching your bum and tearing your ass to shreds. You’re Never Alone With A Box of Krispy Kreme? You hardly need a flashlight for the subtext here. It says: Your Social Isolation Is Inevitable. You Might As Well Eat Shit. And choke to death on your own compulsion. No one will notice. You’re completely alone.
Drink the kool-aid. Eat the applesauce. Buy the app. No thank you, Jim, Marshall and Steve. I choose solitary nosepicking over bulkrate suicide. Although I wish you bon voyage. Pack some Heaven’s Gate Doughnuts for your journey. Give the multitouch mothership my best.