Rejected by McSweeney's 1/2/11

I'm currently batting .333 at McSweeney's. Not too bad.

An Open Letter to Dannon Activa Yogurt Regarding Its Recent $21 Million Fine for Deceptive Marketing Practices, Especially as It Relates to My Colon

Dear Dannon Activa Yogurt,

What the shit, man?! Is nothing sacred anymore?

And by that I mean my blocked, sacrosanct bowels, which I now know will remain gummed up and useless for the indefinite future. I know this because the FTC recently fined your ass $21 million for misleading people—especially me—about your ability to soften stool and increase regularity.

The monetary penalty is a soothing balm in name only, as it will have no effect on my blockage. My belly will remain distended; my intestinal tract jammed—no thanks to you and your mendacious, creamy concoction of active cultures and empty promises.

I mean, you promised to make me regular. You were pretty up front about that. Your commercials said everything but the phrase “poop freely and with wanton abandon.” And yet, I am not regular, am I?

Spokeswoman Jamie Lee Curtis made promises too. She sat there on my television smirking and swallowing gyrating globs of your artificially flavored, bacteria-filled shit by the spoonful, eyes rolling back in her head in anticipation of the inevitable intestinal ecstasy to come. I was not immune to her charms, nor could I block out the fantasies I had of her content form, hovering over the bowl after an Activa binge, happily on the verge of voiding her bowls and continuing her day. Truly, she sealed the deal that I believed would unseal mine. I was Jamie Lee Curtis’s colon! She was mine! Though we would never meet, we nevertheless shared unobstructed bowels, courtesy Dannon’s miraculous Activa yogurt. I would soon be free of the cantankerous anchor lodged in my abdomen! Joy!

Joy? Lies.

Here I am, you see, unable to produce even a meager marble after six excruciating months of vein-popping washroom consternation and Activa consumption.

Pathetically, I thought it was something I had done. Perhaps, I told myself during a particularly long but ultimately unproductive bathroom battle in September, the recommended one-a-day serving was not enough for my especially plugged-up insides. So I ate more and more, but to no avail. A potpourri of tears flowed that day—pain and shame fighting for supremacy on my cheeks—but by the evening hours nothing had broken the water’s glassy calm below. Nothing! I was ashamed then, shuffling awkwardly to bed, as I am now for believing you.

Indeed, dear Activa, while admittedly tasty, you are an utter turd that is, ironically, incapable of producing any of the substantial, satisfying turds that were advertised in your commercials. I’d tell you where to stick your remaining yogurt, Activa, but I cannot. It’s far too raw.

Tenderly,
Jack Loftus