Nothing will make you feel dumber than trying to open the package of a child’s toy. Because, apparently, you have to be smarter than it. Are all those twisty ties really necessary? It’s already in shatterproof packaging used by NASCAR.
This isn’t packaging, it’s a psychological experiment to see how much it takes before you will kill a man. You can’t tear the plastic open and forget trying to cut it. You need the jaws of life for that. So you end up just stabbing it where the plastic is raised and at its thinnest. That way you can get the scissors in there and start to cut a hole. Once it’s large enough you just frantically tear it open. As if, if you don’t get it out in time the toy will die. The toy may not die, but this kid will if he doesn’t shut up at 7 AM on a Christmas morning asking me if I’m done.
Once you get it open someone has decided it would be a good idea to strap every part of this toy down with these half-metal twisty ties. You think, “Well, I’ll just untwist them.”
You start to untwist it only to realize, “Oh, that’s not the right direction.” So you twist it the other way. “Wait, maybe I was right the first time.” So you then play this interesting back and forth game only to realize, there is NO right direction.
Out come the scissors … again.
You try to cut it, but whomever the psycho was who put these things on, twisted them so tight you can’t get the blade under there. And even if you do, it is made out of some space-age carbon fiber NASA shit. It will not cut.
And who decided all these twisty ties were necessary anyway? How many people’s lives were wasted in meetings trying to come to that decision?
“We should strap all the appendages down, and one around the waist just to be sure.”
“What about the head? What if the head flops around in transport?”
“Good point, strap down the head too.”
“Do you think one around the head is enough? What if the truck crashes and birds try to peck its eyes out?”
Now you’ve managed to get two of these twisty ties off, and your fingers have already developed blisters and you’re swearing at an inanimate object.
“Who is the ASSHOLE who packaged this shit? You fucking…”
This is the point where there is only one person who can solve this problem – your wife. You’ve worked up a blood condition in the 20 minutes you’ve been fighting with this thing. You get up, and as you’re walking away she’s already got it out. It’s going to be a very Merry Christmas.