Dear Mr. Links
Until today, in the grand scheme of brand alliances, every one that I’ve seen has fallen into one of two categories: pairings that make sense, and pairings that are so outlandish that they at least don’t cause cognitive dissonance. Cadbury Dairy Milk and Oreos? You know what, fine, that’s probably even tasty. Alternately, Pepsi x Peeps was obviously thought up in a corporate boardroom, because it’s patently off-the-wall and was never going to be good, but you look at it and you think “that’s Peeps flavored Pepsi,” no one will look at it and imagine little marshmallow rabbits floating in carbonated hummingbird feed.
I say “until today” because, sir, today is the day that I saw your Jack Link’s Doritos Spicy Sweet Chili Beef Jerky, and slow clap to you, sir, because I’ve never seen the uncanny valley used as a marketing device before. Whatever cocktail of cocaine, adderall, LSD, and amphetamines you’ve been spiking the coffee of your marketing department with, you have succeeded in poisoning their brains until they managed to crap out the platonic ideal of an absolute failboat of a co-branding scheme.
I don’t even know where to start with what’s conceptually wrong with this scheme you’ve embarked on, sir, but I’m sure going to try to elucidate it. Listen: mathematically, Doritos and beef jerky are topographically identical. Sure, Doritos are generally triangular, and beef jerky is kinda randomly shaped, but they’re both effectively two-dimensional objects that barely brush into the complex plane. And that, sir, is where the comparison between these two food products should theoretically end… and yet, through this self-inflicted co-branding fail, you have forced me to consider: what if corn chips and beef jerky were actually more similar?
What if beef jerky crunched like corn chips? What if corn chips were fibrous like beef jerky? What if you made nachos out of beef jerky? What if you chopped up beef jerky and made beef-jerky panko and brought beef jerky coated deep fried chicken to a Superbowl party? What if you dipped beef jerky in salsa? What if corn chips had a measurable amount of protein? What if corn chips were gummy? What if Taco Bell made a Jack Links Loco Taco? What if in a fit of depression you ate an entire 14.5 ounce bag of beef jerky by the handful while watching The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug with tears silently streaming down your cheeks, knowing you’d never be as beautiful as an elf and deciding to devour raw meat and malt beer like Gimli instead? What if you laid strips of beef jerky across a “Mexican”-inspired salad? What if you made keto Doritos? Would you call them Ketritos? Would some small company in central Pennsylvania make a powdered corn chip sold in a chaw-looking plastic puck advertised by “you don’t need teef to enjoy our ‘reets?”
Sir, I haven’t even opened the package of beef jerky yet. I don’t even yet know what horrors await me, and look at what you’ve done to me. I know I’m expecting gritty beef jerky, because the co-branding makes me assume there’s some detectable, non-trivial amount of Dorito matter in that bag… I don’t see any full chips through the little clear window, but I definitely do not trust this bag of – what do you call it – “two legendary brands, one epic snack.” Yes. This bag of… epic snack. This 2.65 ounce bag of… epic snack. This epic snack that I bought at the local greengrocer’s. I assume, since it’s an epic snack, that when I open it and take a bite, I’ll feel like Beowulf taking a chomp out of Grendel’s arm. Like Siegfied eating Fafnir’s heart. Like Egil Skallagrimson ripping out a berserker’s throat with his teeth. Yeah, now I’m looking forward to this… epic snack! One day there will be an oral tradition with a poem written about me, in dactylic hexameter, RIPPING open the plastic bag of conveniently packaged uncanny valley food and DEVOURING my victim, my EPIC SNACK.
You know what, sir? I’m actually now excited about this product. I want to tear directly into the package, but no, that’s not what I should do. I should get in character. If we’re gonna do this, let’s do this properly!
Ho, fiends! Tis I, Sir Alex, upon my dusky white heroic charger! I travel to the Uncanny Valley, in search of a beast to slay that will sate my ravenous hunger! What epic snack might lay in wait for me here, in this valley – alas! There is not one beast here, but two! A veritable Scylla and Charybdis, but instead it is the fearsome Dorito and the powerful Jack Link! You shall not defat me, fiends! I shall draw my sword and snickety-snack and – ha! Take that, beasts! Now, to dismount from my horse and let us see what we may devour, now that we have slain!
rips open bag
Egads! What is this stench that assaults my nostrils! What sour, acidic miasma wafts from the mouth of this ancient cave! Old forest fire burn and vinegar! The unmistakable reek of the used cowboy boot section at the Laramie, Wyoming Goodwill in July! A hint of genetically-modified-for-storage-stability cherry tomato sold at a discount grocery in the depths of winter, so far out from tomato season that I question my sanity, how do tomatoes exist now!
You know what, Mr. Links? I’m not epic enough for this. drops sword This Doritos Spicy Sweet Chili Flavored Beef Jerky is too epic for me. I’m not sure what I was expecting – see the uncanny valley – but this doesn’t smell like food. It smells like something that may have once been food, and I can definitely smell the beef jerky in there (unwashed cowboy, boot optional) but I gotta say, I don’t recognize a single note of Dorito in the complex yet horrible odor that this bag doth admit.
I suppose I should actually try this product, despite it’s frankly appalling aroma. Okay. You can do this Alex. On three. One, two…
This is one of the most bizarre flavors I’ve ever had, sir, and not in a good way. Plums? There is zero pepper flavor. There is no Dorito dust. It has what I guess you’d call “spice” or “heat” but it’s completely divorced from any other flavor component, and doesn’t even really taste like pepper heat? I understand that there’s a spurge that creates a compound called resinaferatoxin that’s so excessively high on the scoville scale that it destroys nerves, but I have no idea what it tastes like - is that what you used here, just in vanishingly small amounts, to create a spice that has none of the expected flavor of capsaicin, just a light, weird, empty burn? I’m not even sure what this is supposed to taste like. You’ve got the basic smoked beef jerky, and then… its like it’s a wordcloud of a corporate presentation, not a flavor profile – it’s a bunch of disconnected adjectives detached from reality and meaning.
Did you actually talk to Mr. Dorito about this product before you released it? Was he on board? Or is this some sort of corporate identity theft? This product has at least four lies on the package: “Doritos”, “spicy”, “sweet”, “chili.” None of those aromas, or flavors, can be found in this product. And – that’s kind of impressive, because Doritos, regardless of the variety, are always more of a conceptual aroma than anything else. Like, there’s corn, and there’s used fryer oil, and perhaps buttermilk, and a hint of mild red pepper, or a hint of fake cheese, and none of those aromas are detectable here. Yes, I think this is an edible version of an Angela Carter story, where a fairy tale is retold in a form that makes sense to a modern audience.
Let me guess, you and Mr. Dorito were once friends, but then you both had your eye on the same woman market segment. Mr. Dorito was having more success courting the woman market, so the next time the two of you went out hunting, you murdered him and took his house branding, and then attempted to court his market. And so, we find ourselves at the end of Act I of the story… I hope Act II turns out well for you… but knowing how the narrative will impose its will upon a story, I don’t suppose it will. Will you defeat the narrative, Mr. Links?
Time will tell.
Sincerely,
Alex Parise
