Today in exquisite dining experiences:

It's a lazy, but apt metaphor for our times.

Can we chat about something not having to do with the garbage fire that is politics right now? I know, I know, it's hard to escape, as much as we'd all like to. And to be clear, as a fire, it's urgent and should be discussed. The administration is doing illegal, unconstitutional, and un-American things every day and should be resisted and spoken out against at every opportunity. That said, I'm hoping we could talk about Fancy Feast?

Above: No. None of this.

You know, the cat food? I ask because I refuse to pay for YouTube, and consequently am bombarded with advertisements; something I find intensely unpleasant, owning both to my natural aversion to marketing, but also to the wildly ineffective ad targeting. Anyway, today I encountered an ad for something called Fancy Fest Gems which is weird because I don't now, nor I have ever, owned a cat, much less expressed a desire to supply my non-existent cat with a feast, much less a fancy one.

Nevertheless, I was...intrigued isn't the word. Morbidly curious maybe? I was morbidly curious as to what gems--nominally a word used to describe a stone--had to do with cats. They, to my knowledge, eat meat? Like, they're carnivores, so I was understandably confused and decided to let the ad run longer than I normally would before hitting the skip button. The product, I came to understand, is a pyramid of food topped with goo.

I...what even is this?

I presume this is what cats eat, but I also
may just have had slovenly housemates.

Now, I said I've never owned a cat, that's not to say that I've not had living situations that included cats, only that said cats weren't mine, nor was their well being any of my concern. Typically I would offer them a nod of acknowledgment, which they would return, and that would be the extent of our interaction, so exactly what they eat was not a question that came up for me. I was hazily aware of an unpleasant smelling plate of an unappetizing meat-like paste slowly hardening on the floor next to a water dish, or a dry variety resembling Cocoa Puffs. 

Huh? Oh, it's that weird, puffy hat that
chef's wear. I looked it up. Because Pedantry.  

This however, is not that. Why is it pyramidal? And what is that gel on top? Like I said, I didn't watch the commercial in its entirety, but that clammy beige ziggurat gnawed at me, teasing me to learn its secrets, so I did what any 21st century internet-addled adult would do instead of anything productive: I looked it up. The Fancy Feast website refers to it as "A Culinary Crown Jewel" that promises to "delight your cat" with an "exquisite dining experience." It's evidently a mousse paté, although to call it that feels like a personal affront to every French chef who's donned a toque. Oh, and the stuff on top is supposed to be gravy. Another thing I'm sure cats care about.

An ounce of food is like the size of
a cat's face. They're going to notice.

And look, to be clear, I have nothing against your cat and I am in no way suggesting that your cat doesn't deserve an exquisite dining experience. I'm sure they've worked very hard. I'm only pointing out that Fancy Feast Gems is a scam. It varies depending on where you shop, but a 3oz. can of Fancy Feast jellied fish parts and offal is $.99, or $.33/oz. while a two-pack of two-ounce Gems is like $2.50 or $.63/oz. and screws your cat out of an entire ounce of cat food per serving. That's like, a third less gross paté.

Again, I have no dog in this hunt, but I had to sit through this ad and now I've made it my mission to ruin the Fancy Feast company by convincing you that if you have a cat, to please not fall for nonsense like mousse paté for cats.

 I mean, who are you trying to impress?