Baskin-Robbins

In the realm of marketing, I'll be the first to admit there's not a whole lot of honesty to go around. Infomercials show you how flawlessly fantastic their product is, yet, upon arrival at your home, the box contains a lump of molten plastic and a rare strain of West Nile. Burger joints put the edible equivalent of a tuxedo on the subjects of their advertisement, rendering that particular stack of soy and greens entirely mouth-watering, yet completely inedible.

These lies are subtle, though. Strictly for appearance purposes. In the quick-service ice cream industry lies a much more outright, sinister lie.

When you hear the name Baskin-Robbins, a decades-long marketing campaign has seared an Arabic numeral 31 into your short-term memory. I charge any human being living in a civilized society to visualise the name Baskin-Robbins without thinking "31" within seven seconds.

And we all know what the 31 means. Flavours. Baskin-Robbins serves 31 flavours.

Now picture the inside of this store. A freezer lines the width of the store, serving both as an ice-cream storage facility and a service counter across which commerce is conducted. As you may recall, this freezer contains ice cream cartons in twos, and separated by the eights.

Now we return to mathematics theory. 31, the last time I checked, is a prime number; that is to say it is not divisible by any integer other than 1 and 31. Therefore, no combination of twos or eights will yield 31.

This wouldn't be a concern to me if the freezer maintained the empty slot that four freezers of eight would yield, for the sake of brandname stability and the like. But they fill the extra slot. Some chains even bring in another freezer case and flaunt an ungodly forty flavours. Somehow, over the years, this company has come to interpret the symbol "31" as forty. This is either due to a corporation's inability to count, or just an entire organization's proclivity to compulsive, needless, and blatant lies with which they bathe their souls.

Let's say these nine extra varieties of vanilla bring in an extra seven million a year. On average, that's a quarter of a million dollars per primary investor lining their pockets with deceit, dishonesty, and wanton misinformation.

I'm sure these people sleep well at night knowing that they have been raising generations of children who are unable to distinctify between the number 31 and 31 tangible objects.

Well, they obviously do. They're filthy rich liars.

What really creeps me out about this place is those personalized photo cakes they're producing now. If I'm at a birthday party, I don't think I'd be feeling too kosher about eating the birthday boy's nose.

Creepy.

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