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An Open Letter to the Wendy’s That Made Me Violently Ill

Dear Wendy’s,
I want to start by letting you know I understand.  I do.  You’re a massive franchise fast food restaurant that operates in a system where you employ hundreds of thousands of people for minimum wage, meaning you’re getting only the people willing to be degraded and berated by low brow members of the public for almost no money while learning no valuable skills whatsoever.  So the people you employ are often a ragtag crew of desperate older workers, lazy younger workers and middle of the road idiots.  Some work because they need to work there, others work because no place else will have them and all tend to be a little bitter about it.  So when I order a Bacon Portabello Melt on brioche and spend the rest of my afternoon alternating between violently shitting and violently vomiting, I understand why it happened.

Now the thing is, just because I understand that some 17 year old girl with greasy skin and an infected nose ring probably scratched her ass before putting the cheese on my burger which is why I projectile vomited into my toilet with such gusto it sounded like I was yelling furiously into a vat of pudding, it doesn’t mean I condone it.  There’s no good reason for me to be rage vomiting your products across the room unless that is the intended outcome of the sandwich I ordered and, if it is, it should be made clear on the poster out front of the store.  I propose something like the following;

See, you can use a fancy word like ‘emetic’ and most of us will still buy it.

Wendy’s, I know I shouldn’t eat fast food.  I know it’s not good for me.  And I appreciate your efforts to ensure I don’t metabolize all that useless fat by inflicting bulimia upon me but in the future, let me choose to gag on my own finger if I so choose and ensure your employees wash their hands and maintain some degree of sanitation in terms of product so that I don’t have to endure this again.  Thanks!

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