OREOS


LUV - Oreo cookies are brilliant, plainly brilliant, and I won’t hear a word against them. I mean, Weird Al Yankovic hilariously wrote a song about them. Hilariously! Brilliant, right?

The virtues of an Oreo are threefold: first you have the tactile stuff – the biscuits themselves which are very dark, stamped with the distinctive Oreo crest (do they belong to royalty? Maybe!). These biscuits are quite bitter and crumbly, like proper cocoa, but they’re complemented perfectly by the sweet creamy white filling which, I have it on good authority*, is actually a dry mix that tastes wet. It’s DRY but it tastes wet. What is that, magic?

Secondly you have the ritual. Admittedly this may be baffling if you’re a British convert rather than someone who’s experienced years of US-based childhood fetishisation but, believe me, there is something infinitely satisfying about pulling apart the Oreo eeeeeverrrrr so gently until it goes puh, then scraping off the creamy residue (yes, I just said ‘creamy residue’, grow up) from one half of the biscuit with your teeth.

Just try it. Scrape-scrape-scrape, chew. Swallow. There. Isn’t that nice?

And the fun doesn’t stop there! No! Because then you get to, again, eeeevvveeeerrrr so slowly, dunk the other half of the biscuit into some milk. Just dunk. Dunk. DUNK. Yes, cold milk is fine. What do you mean, you’re lactose intolerant? Well, don’t you have any lactose free milk? What kind of a freak are you? No, tea won’t fucking do. I know, Tipp-Ex. Do you have any Tipp-Ex? That’ll do fine (obviously that WON’T do fine, I am saying this for comedic and not instructive effect, so don’t do it, okay?). Now just dunka-dunka, hold, un-dunk and then……………. Put it in your mouth. See? The biscuit’s all sweet and soft now, see? Isn’t that delicious? Yes it is. Now unwrap the next batch and let’s start all over.

And the third thing? People really like Oreos. No, I mean they really like them. People like them enough to do this:



Oreos. Inspiring tasty innovation the world over. And now they’re over here. Get fucking dunking!
- Robyn Wilder

*By “good authority” I may mean Wikipedia and, er, Stuart Heritage.


HAT - Look at you. You’re wonderful. No, really, you are. You’re a human being - a highly evolved example of nature’s finest moment. You’re leagues apart from the other creatures on this planet. You have thumbs that can manipulate tools with unchallenged precision. You have a highly sophisticated system of communication at your disposal and a brain that can easily understand abstract concepts as well as physical objects. At any moment in time, unfathomable amounts of information zoom between a shimmering labyrnth of 1000 trillion synaptic connections without you even knowing it. You are capable of making your own decisions. You are beautiful.


But the people who make Oreos don’t think you’re beautiful. The people who make Oreos think you’re a cunt. Of course they do. Why else would they treat you with such haughty contempt? The people who make Oreos think so little of you that they assume you need a full set of instructions in order to eat a biscuit properly. A biscuit. A fucking BISCUIT.


Apparently, when you eat an Oreo, first you have to twist it in half. Then you have to lick the cream filling out. Finally, you have to put it in some milk. You have to do this before you eat it. You HAVE to. They’re the RULES. They’re the rules set out by the all-powerful Oreo gods, represented in this 2008 advert by a child.


And you know who you are in this advert? You’re the dog. The clueless, unthinking, mangy-looking dog. You don’t even know how to eat a biscuit properly, do you? You have to be told how to eat biscuits. By a fucking TODDLER. That’s how thick you are. A toddler has to tell you how to eat a biscuit. Christ, look at you. How can you even stand to exist in the same universe as the Oreo gods, you mangled abortion of a person? You disgust them, you know that? You actually disgust the Oreo gods. Get out of their sight.


Well, you know what Oreo? Fuck you. If I’ve just chosen to spend money on your stupid biscuits - which aren’t even a fucking patch on custard creams, by the way - then I’ll eat them however the hell I want. If I want to pull them in half, I will. If I don’t want to pull them in half, I won’t. If I want to submerge an entire packet in battery acid, push them up my arse and then fart them onto a vicar’s tits, then I’ll do that. What are you going to do, arrest me? You can’t, can you, you infuriatingly oppressive biscuity shitboxes.
- Stuart Heritage