Brand Strategy for Cadbury Eggs

In 2004, the percentage of people who in some way limit their diet for health reasons is substantial; many are vegetarians or vegans and refuse to eat eggs. Obviously these people don’t make an exception for any particular *brand* of egg, but, if you think about it, there’s one brand that really should be exempted from herbivorous prohibition: Cadbury.

See for yourself. Check the ingredient list for a Cadbury egg and you’ll find, as I did, that these are not actually ‘eggs’ in the strictest sense of the word. They are, basically — and no disrespect toward Cadbury or their products or the nutritional value of their breakfast products is intended — just candy. Syrup, chocolate, goo, etc. And yet this is neither widely known nor actively advertised. As far as John B. Consumer is concerned, Cadbury Eggs are just one among many entries in the chicken egg category. What happens if we change that?
I say let’s find out. I’m guessing the effect will be major. Make the large vegetarian/vegan subculture aware that there’s an egg on the market that they can actually eat, and you’re bound to see a huge surge in sales. Veggies *want* to eat eggs! They just can’t because it grosses them out to know that they’re slurping down little undead baby chickens. Offer them a meat-free egg, though, and they’ll go nuts — completely, totally fucking nuts.
I’m envisioning a TV spot with two friends at a diner. One of them says to the waitress, “Gimme two eggs scrambled — Cadbury — with hashbrowns and wheat toast. And coffee.” The waitress leaves, and Friend B says derisively, “Hey, I thought you were all Veggie-Man these days,” throwing scare quotes around ‘Veggie-Man’. Friend A, generously but with a touch of condescension: “Bro, it’s *Cadbury*.” Cut to the waitress setting the plates down on the table. Friend B’s eggs are standard yellow gross-outs; he takes a bite and kind of gags and chokes down the scrambled undead baby chickens. Friend A scoops up a big forkfull of steaming, chocolatie-brown Cadbury scramblers, smiles, and consumes them with a look of total ecstasy (eyes rolled up in his head, big grin on his face, fingers clawing the vinyl bench). Super runs over a shot of Friend B looking with revulsion down at his plate, his lips twisted tightly into a moribund sneer, his eyes welling with tears: “Cadbury Eggs: No chicken, just chocolate. Ain’t no lie.”

The Ham Canner

Let me just ask you this: have you ever seen a man can a ham as rapidly and accurately as him? And as gracefully? It’s unlikely: he’s the world record holder for a reason. You– You’re telling me you’ve never heard of him? Je-je-je-JESUS!! Crank the volume on your walkie-talkie and prepare to have your picture of reality re-painted.

I remember the first day I became aware of his incredible talent: it was the first day of the rest of my life. I don’t just mean that semantically. I was strolling down the production line on a Monday a.m., hoping to catch an assembler fucking up in some terrible way — one doesn�t advance in my line of work by reporting that everyone is doing just fine — and maybe earn myself a warm glance from Greg for crucifying the inept dope in Thursday’s ISO assessment, when I caught quite the opposite: one of the canners canning at what seemed even to the naked eye to be a very high rate. I ran to my office and got the big stop clock and rolled it out to the line. Go, I said, and I timed him: 3.5 hams per minute. On average. During one 63 second stretch he canned 4 hams. Is this getting through to you? What I had on my hands was a man who could potentially break the record.

Now the deal was this: he was running at around 3.5 hams that first day I timed him, but it turned out that, as my observation over the next week would show, he was actually moving between a 3.3 and a 3.5 average. The cause of fluctuation? Impossible to know. Could’ve been what he ate for dinner the night before; could�ve been what didn’t eat for dinner the night before — there were just too many variables to even attempt to trace them. But even at 3.3, this guy was within half a point of the record, and — I can still hardly believe this as I write it now — he had only begun canning for us the week before. And he had no previous experience. With canning.

So I took it upon myself to train him. Was it entirely selfless of me to do so? Of course not, I had the world to gain. But in the end it was about him, because he was the source of all of it, and when you looked at him, when you watched him can those fucking things� You just, you weren�t thinking about you, I can safely say that. Anyway, I trained him. I had him stuffing everything into everything, then stuffing that — the stuffed thing — into something else: blankets were stuffed into ziplocs; books into banana peels; potatoes into silly-putty eggs; plugs into outlets; casseroles into ovens; cars into carports� There was no end to what I had him stuff and the thing that I had him stuff that first thing toward and then into. No end. But after what seemed like and was several consecutive two-hour periods of training, he was ready.

We went down to the line. I wheeled in the stop-clock. A camcorder was set up so that verification could later be made by the appropriate committees. The first attempt started well: he was a blur of motion. It was ham-thwop, ham-thwop, ham-thwop — like some sort of precision machine. But when the smoke cleared, there were just two hams canned and an indistinguishable number bulging inside his clothing. No joke, he had stuffed ten, maybe a dozen hams into his outfit. I recognized this as him warming up, getting the blood flowing. Kink ironing. His walleyed stare straight ahead as we unpacked his jumper confirmed for me that he was sorting out his mental game. Well, for attempt two, the planets clicked into alignment. When the clock stopped, we had before us six canned hams! Exclamations of You’re fucking kidding! and You�ve got to be fucking kidding me! were silently mouthed by the stunned dozens who had assembled to witness history first hand. I think I said something to the effect of That’s impossible! I’m seeing it, but it’s impossible! Lord it was a heady moment in everyone there’s workday. Hell, workweek.

This Happens More Often Than You Think

Charles was dimly aware of being awake. He felt the pleasant weight of his body on the grass. The warm dry breeze came in between his shirt buttons and tickled his chest. He could faintly smell the fire from camp and something cooking. Rosemary and smoke. His eyelids flickered gently and began to open, then popped. He thought, “Holy fucking shit that’s a lion.”

The state of fashion

Alive and well, with an emphasis on sexy.

A few diction issues

Language is something I pay a lot of attention to and care a lot about, and so poor usage really bums me out. Few things needle me more than somebody using “cozen” when what he means is “cousin”, or “fathom” when what’s called for is “fat them”.
Following are a couple of mis-uses that I’ve been hearing a lot lately. If you or someone you love makes these mistakes, for the love of god, fix it. You’re hurting yourself, and, more importantly, you’re hurting me.

  • “This, that and the other” is a phrase with a very specific meaning. It is not a generic reference to non-specific “stuff”. It refers to the balloons, the stampbook, and the hash. Always. If you do not mean to invoke balloons, the stampbook, and the hash, then “this, that and the other” is not the phrase you want. E.g.:
    Now listen, I did not take this, that and the other; I only took a couple of stamps, like you said I could. And some of your underwear — I assumed you were complicit in the underwear theft, that it turned you on.

    Note: It has become acceptable in recent years to use “this, that and the other” to refer to condoms, the stampbook, and the hash.

  • An altimeter is a scientific instrument that guages altitude; it looks like a little clock with the wheeling arms and the little number jobbies. It does NOT mean “all them o’ therr” or “all of them over there”. Therefore,
    Check the altimeter, Jeff, if you want to know. Our height, I mean. Off the ground, that is.


    Gimme… gimme… four reg’lar nightcrawler… uh… four squid-headed nightcrawler… three a them slimy yeller guys… ah, hell, just gimme altimeter.

  • Cuddlebug and scuttlebutt are not synonyms. A cuddlebug is a person or mammalian pet that likes to cuddle up against other people or pets, kind of nudging at them in an affectionate way using the head or face area to nudge and push. A scuttlebutt is an anal rape. So,
    Awwww, look at this little guy… What a cuddlebug! He’s got my vote!


    The movie Irreversible contains one of the most graphic, brutal scuttlebutts you’re likely to ever see on film.

Great. Just remember: with a little attentiveness and determination, we can all stop looking like buffoons when we say things like, “It was him, officer, he’s the one I saw cuddlebugging my dog!” Because that’s like, hey officer, give this guy a medal — he’s really nice to dogs. He snuggles them.

Good things to stay if you want to sound like a little kid:

“Nice work, disgusticon.”

“Hey, humpstick! Nice work.”

“Hey, look, it’s Vinnie the Vagina. How’s it goin, Vinnie the Vagina? How’s your vagina?”

“Hey, look, it’s Crappy Andy. What’s up, Crappy Andy? Feeling crappy?”

“Hey, look, it’s Tom the Mom.”

“Hey, look, it’s Mangela. Feeling manly, Mangela?”

“My dad said that’s not true. My dad said Columbus was an American.”

Good things to say if you want to sound like a little kid in a Hollywood movie:

“I am an eleven year old kid, and here I am lecturing you on how to safely disarm a mine. I should be home in my jammies right now!”

“Mom, I miss dad. Who was that lady he was with today at the store? Is he ever coming back to live with us? Can we get a dog, mom? I’m going to name him Dad.”

“Actually, according to the internet you should press that green button, crank the ‘Tread Release’ lever over there, and then engage the ignition. If my mom knew what I was doing right now, she’d kill me!”

“I think I’m drunk. I can’t believe dad likes this stuff. Sometimes I miss dad. Hopefully he’ll come back and finish this stuff so I don’t have to. Say, what’s that you’ve got? Hey, it’s dad’s old bull whip. He showed me how to use it once. Stand over there.”

This One Thing he Saw in a Mr. Magoo Cartoon

So, last night I was at a party in Brooklyn, and, as I am wont to do whenever it’s possible at social gatherings, I spent the bulk of the evening watching a silently projected broadcast of the Cartoon Network. If you’ve never seen a muted episode of The Smurfs scored to the ambient strains of The Pixies’ Trompe le Monde, please allow me to go ahead and recommend as much to you now. But that’s not my point. My point is this: it came to pass that a very special one-minute-long(?)(!) episode of Mr. Magoo was featured, in which Magoo, through what I am presuming were the ill-effects of an advanced case of glaucoma, or something, mistook an egg incubator for a billiards table and began racking up the eggs with a fishing rod (which, I guess, he thought was a cue). How Magoo unwittingly found himself at an egg hatchery and holding a fishing pole while in search of a good game of pool is beyond the scope of this article. In any case, Magoo lets fly with a few strokes of the fishing pole, and before he knows it, he’s inadvertently hatched a trio of baby chicks, who somehow manage to escape from the incubator. At the close of the piece, Magoo breaks the fourth wall for the first time, turning to the camera and speaking to us. His message went unheard by me (remember, the sound was off), but it wasn’t really important anyway. You see, no matter what he was saying, it couldn’t have been more compelling or informative than the fact that, unbeknownst to him, those three newborn chicks had somehow found their way atop his head, and, looking us – the audience – straight in the eye, were themselves chirping away (probably) inanely, effectively rendering Magoo’s point utterly moot.
The thought struck me – how similar is my world to the world of Magoo! How often have I been trapped in conversation with a blithering idiot who was all too happy to spend the evening holding forth with whatever faux-profundity his addled mind had most recently pieced together, presuming that he is dazzling me with his rare insights, while, in actuality, I’m mightily distracted by the parliament of chirping birdies (a spectre that, given my particular peer group, I’m afraid to admit, can be taken either figuratively or literally) that have taken roost upon his head with neither his knowledge or consent. Would that the real world were like Magoo’s world, where the conversational vampires at parties can be spotted by the bustling bird’s nest that rests atop their crown, where their empty-headed monologues are routinely drowned out by the e’er-present din of chirps, where an unbearable conversation can be aborted simply by tossing a handful of chicken scratch at their scalp and then stepping aside to avoid the ensuing bloodbath.
Magoo, I am ready to enter your world.

Yeah, so we never really

Yeah, so we never really got around to cataloguing the exploits that went on a couple of weeks ago on the west coast, but suffice it to say that we had the Best Time Ever(TM), and that a great deal of the credit for that goes to the kids in Bishop Allen. Have we been pounding the Bishop Allen fanaticism into the ground, lately? Well, get used to it, people, because our love has not been weakened by the post-tour separation. For crying out loud – do you really expect us to go unchanged after having spent several days crammed in a van with this man:

What if we showed you this, then:

So, you see? Do you see the trouble we’re having letting go? It’s too much to bear.

But just one other thing that Keith wanted to communicate with everyone. Before the show in Sacramento, Keith took a moment for himself (NOT masturbating!) and enjoyed a quiet stroll around a residential ‘hood near the club. All was fine, and Keith was recovering nicely from the terror of having spotted this cadre of bats:

who were clearly up to no good, when he stumbled upon this house:

which he thought rather charming but otherwise not terribly notable. Not terribly notable, that is, until he rounded the corner and casually glanced up at a window on the side of the house, from which some particularly rad heavy metal music was loudly wafting. In this window – and, christ, do we wish that Keith’d had the presence of mind to have snapped a photo of this – was framed a large man with long, unkempt hair, and this dude – this awesome, heavy metal dude – in the privacy of his own home, was donning a Viking’s helmet!
Keith is thinking of moving to Sacramento

Soraya, Amy, Andie, Jody, Lauren, Dan

Well, the hotspring of advice requests has run dry of late, for reasons that we can’t really understand. Are you people no longer interested in Right Living, the We Are Scientists way? Or what? In any case, there are few things we love more than saddling our high horse, so just because you’ve stopped asking doesn’t mean we’ll stop answering. But you’ve forced us to go elsewhere for inquiries. In this case, to the January 2002 issue of YM, which is a magazine we love to pull out from under the mattress on lonely nights or languid weekends.
query: I’m 13 and have been asked to a boy-girl sleepover. I’m afraid my parents will say no. How can I convince them to let me go? -Soraya, 14
Really the only way you stand a chance with this one is if you can somehow make your parents believe that the depths of your depravity are such that forbidding you from going to a lousy boy-girl sleepover would be an irrelevant gesture bordering on the absurd. Tell them you’re regularly doing drugs, acting in porn films, robbing liquor stores, beating homeless people, selling military secrets to the Chinese, and adding extra butter to recipes for baked goods. They will have no choice but to see that a little sleepover with some swingin homies stands a slight chance of further tainting your chastity.
query: Is it true that once you use a tampon, you’re not considered a virgin anymore? -Amy, 14
Absolutely. In fact, the use of a tampon is the only reliable definition of non-virginity. You’ve had oral sex? You’ve had anal sex? Some say you’re still a virgin, some say you’re not. We say unless you’ve had to staunch your body’s natural flow of menstrual blood using a cotton absorption device, you’ve never experienced the kind of physical giving-of-the-self-to-another that we talk about when we talk about sex.
query: There are always cold sores on my mouth, and I hate them! What can I do? -Andie, 16
Andie: Why don’t you kill yourself? Seriously, it sounds like things have pretty much hit rock bottom for you. How could life possibly be any worse? You could be starving, you could live in a country where stepping on a landmine is a constant possibility, you could have abusive parents, and still you would be better off than you currently are. Jesus Christ. Get some perspective, is our first piece of advice.
Our second piece of advice is to try augmenting your diet with a B vitamin supplement. Insufficient B-12 (thiamin) in your diet can be the source of dryness and irritation around the soft tissues of your mouth and nose. A Lysine deficiency may also be causing your problem, so take a 200 mg Lysine gelcap twice a day for two weeks and see if there’s any improvement. Good luck!
query: There was this boy I had a crush on who was always complimenting me, so I asked him out. He said, “No, I don’t want a girlfriend right now, but I think you’re really cool.” Recently, his friend, whom I sort of like, asked me out. I don’t feel like giving up on the first guy, because I still think something could happen. What should I do? -Jody, 14
Jody: We fault your approach at least partially. If your quote is accurate as you wrote it, you must have not simply asked the guy out, but said, “Do you want a girlfriend?” This may be a little forward. Consider taking it a little slower. Desperation is unattractive in 14 year olds.
query: I’m 17 and my boyfriend is 15. Our parents and friends claim he’s too young for me. How can we show them that age doesn’t matter? -Lauren, 17
Dear Lauren: Yawn. Who cares?
And here’s the lone question from a guy, who accidentally addressed this most sensitivie of guy-queries (we’re all too familiar with this one!) to a girl magazine read by a nation of his female peers…
query: I think my penis is small, and I’m embarrassed to change clothes in front of anyone. How do I know if it’s normal? -Dan, 16
Don’t worry! We checked with a doctor and he told us that the average penis size for boys 12-18 years old is .5 to 1.5 inches when erect. So you’re normal, right? I mean, you fit within that range, right? Whatever you are, friend, that’s normal. Normal for you. The other kids at your school may have received high doses of radiation while in their mothers’ wombs, which accounts for their gigantic four and five inch penises, but just wait til they die of brain cancer at 33! Then who’s laughing? You are, Mr. Tiny-Cock! You! Ha ha! Beautiful day!

Just the briefest of notes,

Just the briefest of notes, here, to advise you that the We Are Scientists Musical Enterprise will be Unbuckling the Monster(TM) this coming Friday night. Questions? Allow them to be answered by the following fine news sources:
“One part rock show, one part total personality overhaul, one other different part rock show.” – The Sacramento SnitchPaper
“Witnessing the Unbuckling (of) the Monster(TM) by the We Are Scientists is like allowing a cat to pilot an airship: ultimately disastrous, but totally worth it (if only for the photos).” – The Miami NewsThing
“What is Unbuckling the Monster(TM)? What does that mean? Is it any different from the We Are Scientists’ regular rock show? No. No, I think it’s not.” – The Dallas Gunner-Dispatch
Basically, people, we are just playing our rock music.
But we are doing it with those kids in Bishop Allen. When we played a stretch of shows on the west coast with the BA, they blew our minds anew every evening. We ache for them, now, the way we used to ache for a sequel to Jeepers Creepers, before one actually came out and was only “okay.” BA will never disappoint you like that, though, that’s for sure.
We Are Scientists
Friday, March 12
at Lit
93 2nd Ave . NYC (2nd Ave & 5th St.)
9:00 pm
with Bishop Allen (our bff’s) and The Confidence Men (from Boston)
Afterwards, people with sweet-ass haircuts and tight-ass pants will be simultaneously dancing and sulking, because, remember, this is Lit we’re talking about, here.