“If we are going to get serious about solving global hunger, we need to de-romanticize our view of preindustrial food and farming. And that means learning to appreciate the modern, science-intensive, and highly capitalized agricultural system we’ve developed in the West. Without it, our food would be more expensive and less safe. In other words, a lot like the hunger-plagued rest of the world.”—Robert Paarlberg’s “Attention Whole Foods Shoppers” in Foreign Policy Magazine arguing that we need to stop pushing organic farming and instead focus on reducing, but not eliminating, pesticide use and farm subsidies.
SOUTH BEND, IN—Despite having no natural enemies and belonging to a species that completely dominates its ecosystem, local IT manager Reggie Atkinson opted to consume the processed corn snack Bugles Monday. “I was in the mood for something salty and crunchy, and it’s a little early for dinner,” said the ultimate predator, whose ancestors’ bipedal locomotion, toolmaking abilities, and advanced spatial recognition developments allowed them to hunt animals 10 times their size. “These are original, but the other flavors are pretty good, too.” Acting on an impulse from an incredibly complex forebrain that has evolved over millions of years, Atkinson then took note of the Bugles’ amusing conical shape and placed one on each of his opposable thumbs like little wizard hats.
And, it’s become abundantly clear that you sad bastards will eat literally anything that we can find, photograph, and shit into a little plastic coffin.
Believe me, we know. Because, for years now, we’ve been testing you. Aggressively. Time and again. Through a mind-boggling series of product releases that call to mind Europe’s inexorable slide into the Second World War—each development more unfathomable, disturbing, and unspeakably inhumane.
But, just to be honest, it stopped being fun for us a long time ago.
Specifically, as soon as we realized you wouldn’t even blink at the idea of mixing breaded chicken, jug gravy, frozen corn, and a rudimentary ecru paste of modified potato starches and salted oil—all in the same fucking death-black wading pool—we all agreed that this once rewarding experiment in the limits of human despair was no longer a sporting challenge.
It become more like—what?— shooting diabetic fish in a barrel. Or, I guess, more appropriately, “bucket.”
”—Merlin Mann on KFC’s new fried-chicken-for-a-bun Double Down “sandwich.”