They Said ‘Forever.’ They Meant ‘Until You Cancel.’ The Meat Subscription Mirage, Montana-Tested.

by Decker McKinley, Misleading.com

Out here on the eastern edge of Montana, where the wind doesn’t ask permission and the nearest neighbor is a mule deer named Carl, I don’t expect much from marketing. I expect even less from food delivery. My ranch sits 18 miles from the nearest general store, which doubles as a post office, bait shop, and unofficial gossip hub. That’s where my occasional food boxes land—when they arrive at all.

I don’t have a paved driveway. I don’t have a mailbox. What I do have is a gravel road that floods in spring, freezes in winter, and disappears under tumbleweeds in summer. So when a company promises me “Chicken for Life” or “Bacon Forever,” they’re not just selling meat—they’re selling trust. And when that trust turns out to be marketing sleight-of-hand, I take it personally.

So when I saw the ads—“Chicken for Life” from Good Chop and “Bacon Forever” from HelloFresh—I did what any skeptical rancher would do: I squinted, muttered “bull,” and clicked anyway. Because if there’s one thing I love more than dry-aged truth, it’s free meat. And if there’s one thing I hate more than frozen deception, it’s marketing that treats rural folks like rubes.

Let’s start with Good Chop. Their “Chicken for Life” offer sounds like a poultry pipeline straight to your freezer until you read the fine print. Turns out “life” means one year. And “free” means you’re locked into a subscription that renews automatically, with a cancellation fee if you dare to escape early. The chicken? It’s not a full bird. It’s a rotating selection of wings, thighs, or whatever they feel like tossing in that week. Sometimes it’s substituted. Sometimes it’s delayed. Sometimes it’s just missing.

I once received a box with no chicken at all—just a note saying “due to high demand, your Chicken for Life has been temporarily paused.” Paused? Life doesn’t pause. Not out here. When the coyotes howl and the generator sputters, you don’t get to hit pause. You adapt. You survive. You don’t send a coupon and call it good.

HelloFresh’s “Bacon Forever” is no better. The promise of eternal pork is dangled like a carrot—except it’s a strip of cured meat. Again, the reality is one year, not forever. You get a few slices per box, assuming you maintain your subscription. Cancel early? Say goodbye to your bacon. Want to pause deliveries? Bacon disappears. Forever turns out to be conditional, transactional, and—let’s be honest—fictional.

I tested this myself. I paused my HelloFresh subscription for two weeks while I was out fixing fence lines and hauling hay. When I resumed, the bacon was gone. I called customer service. They said the offer had “expired.” I asked how “forever” could expire. They said it was “a promotional term.” I said it was a lie. They offered me a $10 credit. I declined.

These offers aren’t just misleading. They’re engineered to exploit consumer psychology. “For life” triggers a primal response. It suggests permanence, abundance, and value. But legally, companies can redefine “life” however they want, as long as they bury the truth in the terms and conditions. And bury they do. The real terms are tucked behind asterisks, hyperlinks, and font sizes that require a magnifying glass and a law degree.

I printed out the terms once. Took me 14 pages. I read them by lantern light in my barn while waiting for a calf to drop. By the time I finished, I realized I’d signed up for a subscription that could change at any time, for any reason, with no obligation to notify me. The “Chicken for Life” was subject to availability. The “Bacon Forever” was subject to whim. And the cancellation fees were subject to interpretation.

For folks in cities, maybe this is just another annoying marketing trick. But for rural customers like me—who rely on delivery services due to distance, weather, and supply chain quirks—it’s more than annoying. It’s costly. It’s deceptive. And it’s disrespectful.

I’ve had boxes arrive late, half-thawed, or missing key items. I’ve had to drive 36 miles round-trip to pick up a box that was supposed to be delivered to my gate. I’ve had “free” items vanish mid-subscription because the company “updated its terms.” And I’ve had to argue with customer service reps who treat Montana like a mythical land where logistics don’t apply.

One rep asked me if I could “just swing by the fulfillment center.” I asked her if she knew where Kalispell was. She said she’d “check the system.” I said the system didn’t know squat about snowdrifts, mud ruts, or the fact that my cell service cuts out three miles from home. She offered me a discount code. I offered her a reality check.

The kicker? These companies know exactly what they’re doing. Good Chop is owned by HelloFresh. They’re not some scrappy startup—they’re a global brand with marketing teams that A/B test every word. “Chicken for Life” and “Bacon Forever” aren’t accidents. They’re calculated hooks designed to boost sign-ups, lock in subscriptions, and make cancellation painful.

They know “forever” sells. They know “life” converts. They know rural customers are less likely to read the fine print, more likely to trust the promise, and less likely to fight back. They count on it. They bank on it. And they profit from it

So what’s the fix? Transparency. Regulation. And a little bit of Montana-style accountability. If you’re going to promise food “for life,” you’d better define what life means. If you’re going to charge cancellation fees, disclose them upfront. And if you’re going to market to rural America, respect the realities of rural logistics.

I’d like to see a law that defines “lifetime” offers. I’d like to see a rule that requires companies to honor their language. I’d like to see a watchdog group that audits subscription models and calls out deceptive practices. And I’d like to see more rural voices in the conversation—because we’re not just consumers. We’re citizens. We’re stakeholders. And we’re tired of being treated like outliers.

Until then, I’ll keep picking up my boxes from the general store, squinting at the labels, and calling out the nonsense. Because out here, we don’t take kindly to bait-and-switch. We take notes. We take names. And we take our bacon seriously.

I’ll keep writing, too. Because this isn’t just about meat. It’s about truth. It’s about trust. It’s about the gap between what’s promised and what’s delivered. And if I have to be the guy who stands on a hay bale and shouts “This is misleading!”—so be it.

A little more about Decker

I write for Misleading.com from a remote ranch in eastern Montana, where the wind doesn’t ask permission and the marketing sure as hell doesn’t tell the truth. My mailbox’s still a chunk of a file cabinet tucked inside the general store, and my nearest neighbor is a mule deer named Carl. I occasionally eat thawed chicken from a box, but I never swallow corporate spin.
I take misleading claims seriously—because out here, words matter. When companies twist language to sell false promises, the damage doesn’t just fade with the next ad cycle. It lingers. It shapes how people trust, how they spend, how they vote. And if we don’t call it out, it becomes the new normal.
That’s why I write. Because truth isn’t a luxury—it’s a necessity. And if I have to be the guy standing on a hay bale yelling “This is misleading,” I’ll keep yelling. Until someone listens.