Dear Oscar,

You phony, little slut. I hate you, I really do. Nothing brings such disgust and gut-wrenching pain quite like the sound of your name. Your nauseating, pink products that oddly resemble one another in both color and flavor. How is it that you manage to make every meat you sell taste like bologna? This leads me to believe that your meats come from a concoction of various chickens, pigs, and cows, that have been blended whole into a pink, chicken-nugget, putty-like substance that is then pressed into various shapes and packaging. Is this true?

But, in reality, taking a big fat shit on you isn’t the only reason I’m writing you today. I guess what I’m writing you for is to say thank you, Oscar. I had no previous inclination that I had a preference to deli meets until Oscar Mayer fucked my face.

The scars of our past experiences run deep and although there isn’t a chance in hell I’ll ever see you again, I promise that whenever I’m bent over on the toilet, writhing in pain from horrific food poisoning, I will remember how Oscar Mayer had a way with D-I-A-R-R-H-E-A.

Fuck you Oscar,

Me, Your Worst Enemy

Your Mother Fucking Nightmares