Everyone’s packing for the zombie apocalypse.
Water. Flashlights. Batteries. Sensible shoes.
I’ve reviewed the situation, and we appear to be preparing for the end of civilization without giving sufficient thought to lunch.
You might survive six months in a bunker.
You still have to eat in there.
I brought this up during Monday’s meeting. Management said we were discussing holiday sales.
I said my proposal also involved a limited shopping window.
Meals Ready to Eat. Questions Ready to Ask.
Following my interplanetary expansion proposal, management asked me to focus on customers here on Earth.
My research began with MREs.
Meals, Ready-to-Eat.
A clear name. Sets expectations. Leaves very little room for excitement.
I respect the practicality. A meal you can carry around until you need it makes sense.
But I believe there’s room between “dinner is available” and “I’m looking forward to dinner.”
That’s where Your Rub Club comes in.
My proposal: compact seasoning packets for people who would prefer their last remaining comforts to include flavor.
Working title:
Meals, Randy Enhanced.
Management says I cannot rename an entire category of food after myself.
Apparently, there are rules about ambition now.
The Target Customer Has Already Packed
This is what makes the opportunity so compelling.
Our customer already has a bag.
They’ve thought about storage. They’ve made a checklist. I’ve spent most of that time naming the packets.
These are people who appreciate preparation.
I simply want to ask whether that preparation includes garlic.
Management asked me to define the size of the market.
I said it would depend on how quickly things got out of hand.
They asked for a more reassuring forecast.
We Need to Talk About Bunker Morale
Picture the scene.
It’s day forty-three.
The lights are flickering. Somebody keeps using the good batteries. You’ve heard the same guy explain his rainwater system eleven times.
Then he asks what’s for dinner.
You say, “Rice.”
He says, “Again?”
This is a difficult moment for a community.
A little seasoning won’t repair the generator or make that guy easier to live with.
But it could improve the rice.
I think we should take the wins available to us.
Great Ideas Start on a Napkin
Some of the world’s greatest ideas were first jotted down on a napkin.
Mine was, too.
Management pointed out that this does not automatically put them in the same category.
Regardless, I’ve sketched a three-packet system.
One for everyday meals.
One for when dinner needs a little more personality.
One clearly marked RANDY’S — PLEASE ASK.
The third packet has caused some disagreement.
Management says emergency supplies should be shared.
I agree in principle. I’d just like to be included in the conversation before somebody pours my entire allocation into a communal pot of beans.
For flavor testing, I’d start with The Routine Rub. Salt, pepper, and garlic already make sense on ordinary weeknight food.
The apocalypse would presumably contain several weeknights.
The packet designs are still on the napkin. Operations has requested that I stop putting them in the product forecast.
Barter Value Remains Under Discussion
Eventually, somebody in the bunker is going to have something you want.
A spare flashlight.
A clean pair of socks.
The ability to fix whatever is making that noise.
You’ll need something to offer in return.
I believe a person holding the last good seasoning packet could enter those negotiations with confidence.
Finance asked how we would recognize the revenue.
I said, “Probably by the socks.”
That ended the financial portion of the presentation.
We Have Identified a Packaging Problem
I made a few sample packets to demonstrate the concept.
They fit in a pocket.
Management remained focused on the labeling.
They need to be easy to open.
And, according to management, they need to say what’s actually inside.
My original label said:
OPEN WHEN THINGS GET BAD.
They felt that was too broad.
Their point was demonstrated when I opened one during a routine printer jam.
I have submitted a revised label.
SEASONING.
Less dramatic. Apparently more helpful.
The Field Test Was Held in the Break Room
I proposed a realistic simulation involving a darkened warehouse and several volunteers dressed as zombies.
Human Resources asked why.
I explained that we needed to understand the customer experience.
They suggested we begin by tasting the food.
We tested the concept with rice, beans, and a meal pouch. I brought a clipboard so everyone would understand this was official.
The feedback was encouraging.
One person said, “That’s pretty good.”
Another asked whether the lights needed to be off.
A third took the remaining sample back to his desk.
I recorded that as repeat purchase intent.
He recorded it as lunch.
We Should Probably Launch Before the Apocalypse
This is the strongest part of my proposal.
Once the zombies arrive, customer acquisition becomes considerably more difficult.
Email engagement may decline.
Delivery instructions become complicated.
Our usual courier has made no commitment regarding barricades.
We should establish the brand relationship while everyone still has a working doorbell.
Management asked whether I could apply that same urgency to the holiday campaign I was actually assigned.
I told them I was happy to discuss a seasonal crossover.
They took the whiteboard marker away.
I Remain Prepared
The proposal is currently under review.
That’s my interpretation of “please take this box home.”
In the meantime, I’ve added seasoning to my personal emergency bag.
I’ve also added a spoon, because apparently I spent the entire meeting discussing dinner without thinking about how I would eat it.
This is why we test.
Rub Responsibly.
— Randy
Marketing
EDITOR’S NOTE: Your Rub Club does not currently sell MRE seasoning packets or a zombie-apocalypse kit. Randy’s proposal is fictional. The break-room lights are back on, and his warehouse request has been denied.