An open letter from a hater.

Dear Chick-Fil-A:


Kindly get the fuck over yourself. You are a fast food joint. You can offer a dessert menu in that oh-so-cute little leather booklet all you want to, you are still a fast food joint. (BTW, doesn't leather clash with the philosophy of your dyslexic Cow mascot? Hmmm....) You can carry a tray of carrot salad to all the breeders' tables that you want to, you are still a fast food joint. You can impress all the entitled, Oprah-salivating, Croc-wearing, coupon-wielding breeders that you want with that humongous pepper grinder, you are still a fast food joint. You can brag about how "healthy" your foods are all you want to, you're still a fast food joint. Just because you use real chicken, and make lemonade with real lemon, doesn't make it healthy. You use enough sugar in both your lemonade and your iced tea to recreate Santa's workshop at the North Pole. And your beloved "Chikin" is loaded with sodium. So don't front. You are a fast food joint. Oh, but please, please continue to gloss over that fact by calling yourself a "Quick Service Restaurant." It only makes you look foolish. Because you know, I know, and your bestest buddy Jeebus knows that you are a fast food restaurant.


Oh, and managers...chill the fuck out. I swear, whenever one customer comes in, it's like a code blue at the hospital! You practically scramble every single employee from every corner of the universe, just to take this poor schmuck's order, and he hasn't even decided what he wants yet! Nobody will have a heart attack if you don't fellate them right away. This is not the sinking of the goddamn Titanic. Relax.


End.