Sorry, Miracle Whip, But It’s Over

4 Mar 2010

The Friend Request from Miracle Whip

“It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet.”
–Mary Shelley

I used to be Facebook friends with Miracle Whip. It was fun for a while, but then I started to suspect that some of my fellow 19,000+ Whippers were poseurs. This is just a hunch, of course, but there were a few clues that made me believe that the whiff of formaldehyde I got whenever I read their profiles was not merely the product of my conspiracy-fueled imagination, but quite possibly the act of some great, Kraftian Prometheus.

Consider, if you will:

1. The Names. The majority of the women have monikers that would make any poet proud.

Nyiajah Nyi Martinez-Pierce
Agnes Mary Prevost Warsaw
Jenel Faustin Kukla
Karen Burke Abbondanza
Rosebud Badour
Sara Dryzga Hougaboom
Josefina Josie Shanahan
Katie Wickstrom Stenglei
Court Greathead

These roll around on the tongue as liquidly as a Miracle Whip potato salad (although I might not use the last one in mixed company). And if they’re actually real, then Jenel Faustin Kukla is one lucky bug. But they could come from transcription software that combines various syllables into something resembling English, not unlike Frank Luntz’s language company, or the magnificent sentences at

2. The Lo-li-tas. Start with whatever middle-aged huswife you will, one or two clicks brings you, Benjamin Button-like, back to your wedding day or first college party. Nor are you alone: you are with your soulmate, or at a bar, or with a baby. And there’s more than the average number of bikini and cleavage shots. We all know that “child” is America’s middle name, and that anyone over the age of 17 in this country is not allowed in a shopping mall, so it’s entirely possible that Kraft Foods wants Miracle Whip to be as tarted up as its sauce, and jump into a hip and zesty neotenous sandwich, where it might get touched by an iPod.

3. The Quotes. Miracle Whip friends say things like this:

“Egg Salad Sandwiches in the House! Don’t use that whimpy white bread either…got to be whole grain, dark bread…the kind that fights back when you bite it! Yummy! Mash the hard boiled eggs with a fork but leave some big chunks, add a splash of lemon and a little bit of chopped onion…but just a bit (dash of salt and pepper if you like), and then mix in MW to the consistancy you desire, spead it on the dark bread…add a lot of fresh lettuce leaves…smash the slices together and you will have some summer heaven to taste!” –-Susan Mounts Duran

Now, some (or all) of these people might actually be alive out there, loosely speaking, and if they are, they should come forward and declare their humanity. Until that time, though, I am going to let cynicsm, a heretofore totally unknown concept to me, carry the day, and convince me that the recent Supreme Court decision that says a stitched-together mass of primal urges is, in any way, a person, was only the culmination of a long process of putrid personification.

“It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs…How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful!–Great God!”

Great God, indeed.

(Note to Kraft Foods: I would be absolutely delighted to recant this entire post and be friends again if I am proven wrong. Really.)


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