No, we're not talking about capping the hot air that comes out of publicists' mouths. What really needs to be regulated is the amount of waste that goes into little-discussed practice of PR graft, the timeless art of trying to sway journalists or at least grab their attention with booze, candy, books, booze, electronics and booze. Today, this practice reached a new low, when we received the pictured package from a PR person who, in a rare merciful streak for Adages, shall go nameless.
As usual, I was delighted to find a parcel brightening up my mailbox's usual dreary offerings of useless press releases, bad magazines and The Delaney Report. While opening the box, marked "perishable," at my desk, I found it was wrapped up tighter than a Jane Austen character. And there was strange smell -- straight-up feces. I soon deduced the odor was coming from one of the three layers of packaging protecting the as-yet-unseen booty. First, there was space age foil-wrapped cushioning. Getting past that I found something called a PolarPack, to keep the booty cold, and then there was a box wrapped in standard packing paper. By the time I clawed my way inside the box, my expectations were high.
Then I saw them ... truffles. A quartet of little candies, whose combined mass was a mere fraction of all the crap that protected them on their journey. Ah, the waste. Even Al Gore, no stranger to a high-calorie treat, would be appalled.
And then there's the real crime: I don't even like chocolate.