Dear Dole, and companies that make delicious, lunch sized fruit in a cup. I am both a grown woman, and the kind of person that warrants a few stupid warning labels. Your packaging, while probably efficient in their use of materials, makes me look like an extra in bukake porn before I even finish consuming them.
The thing is, I *know* that I have a strange predator/prey relationship with your pineapple bits, and have more than once been outsmarted by your mixed fruit in light syrup. I know this, and I still crave it. So I approach each container like a taloned threat. "You're not the boss of me!" I'll say, as I put the cup square in the center of my eating surface. We'll have a stare down, as I attempt to determine the size of the air bubble under the plastic, and how much pressure from my thumb the cover can stand before shooting its load on my shirt, leaving me sticky and unsatisfied. I'll try to be the top. You know, give it the whole "who's your daddy" treatment and take the lid from behind by facing it away from me and pulling the tab like a Lolita's pigtails. Meanwhile, the Mission Impossible theme (The Adam Clayton version, of course) plays on a stereo only I can hear, and I stick my tongue out in a visible effort to concentrate on not fucking this up. Out of fear that I'm going to end up washing the table *and* the walls of the lunch room, I'll eventually turn the cup around to face me. Millimeter by painstaking millimeter, I'll pull on the tab to get at the fruit.
It's at this point where I'd like to offer a suggestion. Remember print magazines? I know, I forget about them too now that I have a tablet. (Though, it makes reading in the tub a new challenge.) Well, I ask about magazines because you used to get samples for perfume and other goodies in them. Magazine publishers would shove a piece of card stock between the two staples and affix the freebie to the card using some sort of adhesive that was 2 parts booger, and 1 part flypaper. Not only was that stuff awesome to peel off the glossy paper and use to simulate snot, it has a forgiveness in its stickiness that's closer to post-its than the tack welding you motherfuckers use. Couldja look into maybe changing your sealing methods? Otherwise, one of these days I'm going to end up on the news when the face of Jesus shows up in the splatter on my chest. Which, now that I think about it, isn't the worst reason to end up on the news, I guess.
The point is, I'm a goof when it comes to getting at the tasty goodness. Any help would be appreciated, whether it be a bib or a pull tab top. Or, a camera and crowdsourced funding for some new fetish genre; fat girls get corn syrup in the face. I'm certainly not too proud to profit.