Hamburger Helper Has Ruined My Life

I’m a bachelor with no prospects for marriage. Hell, the last time I went on a date, Bush was in office. Naturally I eat a lot of packaged food, because nothing screams “Ladies, control your swooning” like ambling up to the check-out line at H-E-B with a cart full of canned tuna and instant ramen.

Okay, I don’t so much “amble” as “weeee!”

But there was one boxed dinner that always made me feel a little better about stocking up on cook-by-the-numbers food. There was one brand I could depend on to create the illusion that I might be an awesome young husband and father who was nice enough to cook sometimes when his brainiac wife had to be out of town to lecture on nuclear proton surgery or something.

 Smart chicks make better lovers. They’re also too adorably absent minded to nag you about taking out the garbage.

That brand was Betty Crocker’s Hamburger Helper; but no more. Why? Well, take a look.

Notice anything wrong (besides the fact that the glare makes this look like a Bad Robot production)? That’s right: The box art.

“But Aaron, I don’t see the problem.”

Well then! Allow me to rant and rave about it!

See the box on the left? That came from the Y2K panic mode stash of Hamburger Helper I built up months ago because I’m allergic to the grocery store. You see that box and it just seems to say “Wholesome Family Fun”. That’s a box good moms and dads buy so they can have a fun little side dish to serve the kids in hopes they’ll get carried away and eat the steamed broccoli on the other side of the plate.

They serve it to me -  I serve it to Fido.

Now, see the box on the right? I bought that last week. What does that say to you? I’ll tell you what it says!

“Hamburger Helper: Because She’s Never Coming Back!”

“Hamburger Helper: Because You Spent Eight Semesters Playing Diablo II Instead Of Studying!”

“Hamburger Helper: Because Social Anxiety!”

“Hamburger Helper: Because You Work In Radio!”

Yeah. I can’t put a box like that on the conveyor belt under the menacing gaze of “O” magazine and expect anyone to be fooled into believing I’m a helpful fiancé or daddy.

 She's got eyes everywhere...

The second the people at the grocery store see that bland, spartan box being scooped out of the cart by a scruffy, t-shirt wearin’ slob like me, they know what’s up. They know I’m going to eat that entire box of side dish for dinner while I sit bathed in the cold glow of my computer monitor and watch a live stream of someone's YouTube playthrough of Majora’s Mask on a Friday night when I should be out trying to meet a nice girl way out of my league who will inspire me to change my life.

Though, to be fair, I have a better chance of meeting this guy. 

I know this seems like a silly thing to be so upset about, but Betty Crocker has seriously crocked up the only product that offered me any hope of disguising my perpetual bachelorhood. They may as well just throw all the ingredients into a sack and call it “Bachelor Chow”.

Thanks for nothin’, Betty.