When I was a kid, I was dead sure that anything coming from the so‑called first world—cold fronts first and foremost—had to be good and pretty. Those Nácar soaps, which were anything but nacreous, were handed out along with sugar and oil without wrappers, just as the God of Central Planning had brought them into the world. That filthy little pleasure of tearing off a wrapper was denied to us until they started bringing them in from the Socialist Bloc—cold as well, but not first world.

I used to think advertising in a society of near‑hysterical consumption had to be infallible, because it needed to keep up that feverish desire to seem in order to be. Turns out it’s not. Now, in my so‑called mature years, I’ve noticed that most ads are as stupid as the people they target. In these times when no one even bothers to keep character, habits—hell, not even bad ones—most ads just spray the herd and hope someone bites.

I’ve seen few as absurd as this one. Kettle Chips are supposedly cooked in small batches, in open kettles—hence the name—so they can boast a thicker, crunchier texture and a more intense flavor. I bet they’re delicious. I bet they taste like grandma made them. But who’s your market? Who actually buys them? The same as always. The ones who can pay that discreet little difference. Of course.

That prissy little man in the ad, with that face of disgust, that look of I’ll do anything for a handful of coins—unless he’s in costume, pretending to be a “gentleman”—doesn’t eat chips. Those people, the ones with the dainty neckties, the ones who wear a ring on the index finger of the left hand just to break the symmetry with the one on the right, they don’t eat chips.

Here’s what I read in that model’s posture and expression:

- I feel a deep disgust for chips.

- I’m holding this bag as if it were a dead rat.

- I refuse to look at the photographer, and sure as hell not at you—yes, you—dimwitted, greasy‑fingered chip eaters.

- You, reader, stopping to look, you’re a dunce, a moron, a blockhead.

- I want out of here. Now.

- I hate humanity, God, the Universe, and every last one of you.

These people—who live in Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, Elle, Marie Claire and Grazia—they don’t eat chips, man. In fact, they don’t eat at all. They live off air and digital retouching. This crowd, who never lift a finger and still have cash to buy two‑pound boots, hate fat, hate the very act of chewing, and their favorite, orgasmic insult is telling someone they smell like bacon. Dressed in suits and gowns that cost a traditional worker an entire month’s wage, they steer clear of oil and butter. Catch them chewing and it’s instant exile—you’re never coming back to my party.

So you, Kettle—nothing to do with me. Your model doesn’t represent me. If he despises chips, he despises me, your potential customer. And I don’t want to be him. I’m a chubby slacker who buys chips so I don’t have to fry them. I don’t wear expensive clothes, I wash my hair with Head & Shoulders, I own a single brush. If I need to show a leg, I leave it behind me where it belongs—if you’ve seen my left shoe, you can safely imagine the right one. I don’t want to be draped on some sofa in some corner of some party. I don’t want to go to that party at all. I’d rather stay home with the dog or the cat, eating chips from people with a bit of grease in them.

Kettle—may I never run into you again.