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The Journal of Literary Satire | Hastily Written & Slopilly Edited
Friday, March 19, 2004

Dear Nesquik

Nestlé USA, Inc.
Glendale, California

Dear Nesquik (née Nestlé Quik),

I’ve been drinking your chocolatey-flavored milk since before I was even born. Of all liquids on the planet, your chocolatey-flavored milk is my favorite, surpassing even soapy water, turpentine, or Colt 45. I’ve won numerous Nestlé Quik-chugging contests—both for quantity and for speed. Yes, I’m a Nestlé Quik force to be reckoned with!

What gives, Nestlé Quik? Why are you now calling yourself “Nesquik”? Are you hiding from something? Are you ashamed of what you are? What happened to good old-fashioned Nestlé Quik that I’ve known and loved all my life? And what’s up with your Quik bunny? He used to where a collar ‘round his skinny little neck with a big Q-shaped bling-bling pendant. (The “Q” stood for “Quik.” Duh.) Now, he wears a big ol’ “N” ’round his neck. (The “N” stands for “Nestlé has no pride in its decades of customer loyalty, and caves in to the quaint, capricious whims of a myopic marketing department.”)

I don’t hold a grudge against your chocolatey-flavored beverage; that stuff tastes as good as ever and probably wasn’t even given a vote in the name-changing meeting. But you, Nestlé executives, have made a terrible choice. Not only are you alienating legions of devoted Nestlé Quik fanatics, you’ve also royally screwed up my life. What am I supposed to do about my Nestlé Quik bunny tattoo? The one with the big ol’ “Q”? I’m embarrassed to go out in public now, sporting a logo that’s hopelessly obsolete. It’s a really great tattoo, too; when I flex, that Quik bunny dances the rumba! Ha, ha. Seriously, though it rocks. Or, I should say, it did rock, until you went and obsoleted my very flesh. God damn, how could you do that to me, Nestlé? I can’t afford costly (and painful!) tattoo-removal laser-beam surgery, and frankly, I shouldn’t have to.

And to think, I almost went with the Yoo-Hoo tattoo. Yoo-Hoo wouldn’t go changing on me. Yoo-Hoo wouldn’t suddenly wake up one morning and decide to call itself “Yo-Ho” or “Yee-Ha” or “Nesyoohoo.” You know why? Because those names are dumb. Just like Nesquik.

This whole situation is just like when my ex-fiancée, Ramona, decided to join the Bangles and changed her name to “Susanna Hoffs.” How many out-of-date tattoos can one man have on his body? I swear, it’s like some cosmic joke on me.

Josh Abraham

P.S. If you Nestlé dingbats go changing Nestlé Crunch to Nescrunch, I swear I’ll go apeshit.

Josh Abraham was born in Algeria in 1913. He spent his early years in North Africa, working various jobs--in the weather bureau, in an automobile-accessory firm, in a shipping company--to help pay for his courses at the University of Algiers. As a young journalist, his report on the unhappy state of Muslims in the Kabylie region aroused the Algerian government to action and brought him public notice. From 1935 to 1938 he ran the Théâtre de l'Equipe, a theatrical company that produced plays by Malraux, Gide, Synge, and Dostoevsky. During World War II he was one of the leading writers of the French Resistance and editor of Combat, then an important underground newspaper. Abraham's fiction, his philosophical essays, and his plays have assured his preëminent position in modern French letters. In 1957 Abraham was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. His sudden death on January 4, 1960, cut short the career of one of the most important literary figures of the Western world when he was at the very summit of his powers. No, wait. That was Albert Camus.