Dear McDonalds,

The Big Macs you place into my drive through bag are never as well made as your commercial Big Mac.  Inevitably, my Big Macs resemble Leaning Towers of Special Sauce, composed of a meat to lettuce ratio of 2:5.  It’s bad enough that the underwear models we masturbate to are airbrushed into unrealistic standards of beauty, we don’t need our food equally misrepresented by a graphical design major.  I want my half-naked women chubby with splotchy skin, and I want my Big Macs sloppily made by a high school worker high on meth.

Please create more accurate and truthful commercials if you wish to continue receiving my business.  Thank you.

P.S. Those commercials where you invite questions about your food’s quality, which you will then answer, are hilarious.  As if you aren’t completely biased to portray your food in the most positive light.  Do people actually buy that crapful of lies?


Dear Jack-in-the-Box,

Stop giving me curly fries as a form of apology.  First of all, putting more food into my order that I didn’t want is a terrible way to apologize for wasting ten minutes of my time because you couldn’t properly prepare the food I did want.  You are essentially giving me more trash to throw away.  Are you hoping that I’ll eat them, develop an arterial clog instantly, and fall over dead before I can display my ire?

Second, if I liked your curly fries then I would have ordered curly fries.  I prefer your regular fries, that’s why I ordered and paid for those fries.  So after ten minutes of waiting because your employees forgot part of my order (probably busy giving each other hand jobs in the freezer), the fries I wanted were cold, soggy, and crappy.  But at least the curly fries I despise were hot, right?

If you want to apologize for wasting my time, then give me back a portion of the money I paid you.  Or at the very least, let me watch your employees give each other hand jobs in the freezer.


Dear Wendy’s,

Bring back the real Wendy.  She is so much hotter than the fake, skinny Wendy mascot you now parade on your commercials.  In fact, bring back the real Wendy in a yellow polka dot bikini and have her take a big bite out of one of your new Bacon and Bleu Cheese on Brioche burgers, letting the juices drip down onto her buxom boobs.  Not only will I orgasm, I will instantly drive to the nearest Wendy’s and order twenty.  Until that day, I will not be ordering your crappy food unless I’m hired as an assassin and need a disgusting base for poisoned dog food.


Dear Burger King,

I demand you change your name to Burger Monarch immediately, you sexist pigs!  Queen Elizabeth’s reign has been longer than your existence, you misogynists!  There hasn’t been a king all these years, and yet you insist on parading a male royal around to taunt our grand Queen.  Make the change quickly, or suffer the wrath of picket lines which will draw Gloria Allred to your doorstep like a feminist moth to your discriminatory flame.  And you don’t want Gloria Allred to get involved because she has no rational portion to her brain and will demand much more for even greater imagined slights!

I’d also like to compliment you on your chicken fries.  They have the perfect amount of spice.  Good job.

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