Letter the the Campbell's Soup Executives

To The Campbell Soup Company Executives:

No, I’m not talking to you, secretary in the main office reading this. I know those big execs have got busy schedules, but goddamnit, this is important, and you need to get this to them. Say execs from Progresso sent another letter and they’re talkin’ shit again and calling Campbell’s “shitty bullshit soup for babies.” If they point out that Progresso is a subsidiary of General Mills, tell them oh yeah, you meant the General Mills execs and to stop being smartasses and read the goddamn letter. I don’t care what you have to say, just get it done.

Oh, and, clearly, you’re gonna have to remove this front page from this letter. You know, so they don’t see my conspiring? Jesus Christ, do I have to spell everything out for you? This is first day shit! How the hell did you graduate from Secretary College anyway?

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To the Most Notedly Esteemed Individuals of Whom the Upper Echelons of the Soup Business are Comprised:

First of all, allow me to introduce myself. Hello, my name is George Liberty Patriotism Freedom Guns Washington (it’s a family name). First time writer, long time eater. I have quite literally loved your product since nearly the moment I was born, as my mother was a sickly woman who did far too much meth, and her doctor was not much better. As I was being delivered 3 ⅓ months premature, the doctor realized he was using the incubator to keep his hot-dogs warm, so he just filled a bathtub with about three inches of Cream of Mushroom and plunked me in. Worked like a charm, as you can tell, and it hardly caused any cognitive disabilities at lkcjutter reverberavtions apifhf;;wewqoi 11984485 THE KING COME DOWN.

Anyway, I write not merely to praise you for your life-giving elixir of animal brine. Instead, I come bearing sad news of disappointment. You see, I am a college student, which leads to peculiar financial circumstances. In particular, to combat the costs of tuition I am forced to live off of microwaveable meals and whatever algaenous feculence I can manage to suckle off the toes of homeless men.

So, imagine my joy when I discovered that you, sweet, sweet purveyors of nutrition and sustainers of being, had a product requiring only the container and a microwave to consume, apelled most blessedly, “Chunky Chili. With Beans.” Why the FUCK had I bought all these  REAL bowls? Campbell’s, that meat-solution Deity, had already created a product WHICH WAS ITS OWN COMESTICATION APPARATUS?!?! And, even better: It proclaimed right there on that beautiful all-in-one, heat-and-eat container that it was Cooked with Care in the USA. I needed nothing more. I instantly filled my pants with ejaculate. I love the USA. Hell, I even live there! It’s like you knew I wouldn’t eat anything not made here, because MUH FREEDUMS.

Now, this sounds all great. But let me sidetrack here for a second. Clearly, you guys have got some serious gentlemen developing your product. You are an international food corporation: The stocks may say you’re only worth 1/10 an Apple per share, but I know that you’ve got to have enough bullion held back to make Goldfinger shit doubloons. In all likelihood, you’re nabbing engineers from NASA and Battelle left and right. These are people who probably get off on ensuring 800,000 gallons of tomato soup fall within .05% variance in viscosity. People who nuzzle their calculators to sleep and have an aneurysm when labels don’t all overlap to within ⅛ an inch of specifications.

Which brings me back to my main point, and my reason for writing: You have the finest team of soup-scientists this side of anywhere. Yeah, I’ll say it, you’re the best in the world. No, fuck Progresso. Did Andy Warhol paint fucking Progresso cans? No. So why, please, please tell me why, with an ensemble of finely tuned broth-container-designing machines, CAN YOU NOT MAKE A GODDAMN PULL-TAB LID FOR YOUR GODDAMN CHUNKY CHILI BOWLS THAT I CAN OPEN WITHOUT SPLATTERING YOUR ACIDIC MEATY-TOMATO SWILL ALL OVER THE GODDAMN FUCKING ROOM?!

I mean, honestly! Jesus H. Tittyfucking Christ (family name), how hard can it be! I want to warm my chili and then put it in my mouth, I don’t wanna have it sprayed in a fine, hyper-speed mist across my face like I’m part of some Texan cuisine bukkake. My roommate can tell if I’ve made your fucking soup when he gets home because there’s a silhouette of my body in chili spatters on the opposite wall. I’ve blinded no less than three too-curious cats with your edible Mace, and I loved Mr. Tuffy-paws, you soulless bastards.

And it’s not like this is even a particularly difficult thing to remedy, because, I mean, COME ON. I don’t have to brave torrents of foul sugar water besieging my orifices when I crack open a Coke, and that involves popping a small piece of metal at high speeds directly down into the liquid. All your’s involves is peeling it slowly back like the world’s only edible tin of sardines, except at the last moment it’s like there’s a sudden spasm in the fabric of reality, causing like 50% of the delicious soup I paid for in hobo-bones to soak every piece of clothing I own in tomato puree and “caramel color,” regardless of whether it was in the closet at the time. It says “Roadhouse” on the bowl, but I don’t recall ever being at a roadhouse where the waitresses dumped the food in my lap instead of on the plate, and I’ve been to a lot of roadhouses because for a while I was certain my real father was a trucker and I was determined to find him. Actually, I have been to a roadhouse like that once, but I think that was the idea and also the waitresses were topless, so it was really somewhat more acceptable. Potential alternative to revising the can: package boobs with the soup. I would accept this as an alternative.

Alright, I’m spent. I have nothing more for you, you soup-dealing bastards. I hope you can’t sleep at night because the thoughts of the stains are haunting you, and I hope your families prefer ramen noodles.

PEACE.

-George Liberty Patriotism Freedom Guns Washington, esq.

The Importance of Being Cool

It had to come to this eventually, didn’t it? You had, in effect, caused yourself to be ostracized from the right group, the “cool kids” here at school, and the only way to remedy it now is a thorough breakdown of all various issues. You see, there are a number of things that we, the “in” crowd do that you do not, and a further number of things we do not that you do. That needs to change.
Let us address one of the most grievous issues first: It’s obvious you’ve been thinking. And not just idly thinking; you’ve been doing some real, solid introspection. Which is just WRONG! What were you thinking? I’ll tell you what you were thinking: something, and that is precisely what you shouldn’t be thinking. You are a person of thought, and of clarity, and that is inexcusable. Your contemplations may lead to legitimate creativity, deepening of character, and, worst of all, a progression and maturation of yourself.

In contrast to your obvious faults, allow me to introduce you to a perfect specimen of cool-ness: Chaz Chazzington. Chaz knows that the key to cool lies in an utter non-progression of personality, a stagnation of interesting features and thought and a reliance on pop-culture for new interests. When faced with the ghastly prospect of having free time to think, he assuages his mind with low-energy mental churnings regarding his social life, like his girlfriend, his other girlfriend, his friends’s girlfriends, and his “Bro-time.” He also makes absolutely certain to assault his eardrums with something so harsh and offensive to taste that it numbs him, utterly clearing his mind. That ensures he won’t be having any of that loathsome maturation today!

This leads us to our next point: Your tastes. You may think, looking over your “favorites” in all the different forms of media that you could be considered to have “good” taste. You would say you like good movies, good music, and good art. You would be correct, and that needs to stop. All forms of media are simply vehicles for ideas, and things considered to be in “good taste” are therefore obviously conveying good ideas intelligently. Which, come on, is obviously bad! Did we not just cover in the previous section the danger of your own, self-generated ideas? And now you want to expose yourself to the ruminations of the world’s great minds? Whatever is wrong with you?! What are you, some sort of insatiable idea-glutton, gorging your already dangerously clever mind with more brilliance? You obviously want to be left out of the “Cool” people forever. Cool people don’t want clever. They want genital-based jokes that insult whoever they have decided they dislike that hour.

Chaz knows this. He GETS it. What, you might ask, does Chaz like to listen to for music? He likes his bass loud, and his bass louder. Yeah, bro, he knows he said bass twice. That’s how loud he likes it. LOUD. There is not a single song on his brand-name music-playback device that does not degrade women or glorify sex/violence/money. The word “love” appears 6 times only in his 3000 songs, and twice it is followed by, “dat booty.” As for movies, he likes them raunchy, or shooty, or exploding. That’s it. Those are literally his only criteria for value in a film. Well, it does get bonus points if the attractive female lead shows her breasts. Chaz likes that. And art? Chaz thinks that he’ll just leave that for the gays, right guys? Hyuck. Hyuck.

There are many more fields in which your cool factor is painfully deficient, but there is one which should deal with most of them handily: your personality. It has come to our attention as a hivemind of popularity that you are being your own person an awful lot. You are making your own decisions based on personally formulated values, and expressing yourself the way you feel you most want to. To this, we have but one thing to say: “How dare you?” We are, frankly, offended by the ostentatiousness of your individuality. What are you doing, being yourself? Why aren’t you busy being us? Are we not worth being? You are pretending to be happy with your own characteristic style of dress, speech, and action. But we can tell that on the inside you are a shriveled husk of a human being, longing with all your withered heart to be cool, like us.

Chaz is like us. Chaz is cool. Chaz understand that the total obliteration of self is key to his happiness. And as Chaz perfectly mirrors our every facet, we are there not only as a collective of popular humanity, but also as that small voice that whispers in the back of his mind as he tries to sleep but still can’t. No Chaz, that isn’t hollow emptiness. Of course that isn’t an aching lack of self-fulfillment throbbing in your chest, Chaz. That’s victory. You’ve won, Chaz. You’ve won it all. You’re cool. And now you’ll always be cool, like us. Cool-ness is eternal, and your success in popularity now, in High School, will surely carry you over, satisfied, through the rest of your life. You are cool.

And that’s all that really matters.

One day I pooped

Three years ago, I shit in a gas station toilet.

To understand the context in which this tale exists, it’s necessary to enlighten you first and foremost as to my excretory tendencies. As my roommate might attest, I relieve myself of my solid-waste burdens more or less two times as frequently as any other person on the planet. That is, my body calls for a mandatory, everything-must-go anal purge on roughly the same timetable as Old Faithful, give or take a few minutes depending on my corn intake. This is normally.

On the fateful day which I describe to you now, it had been 2 days since I had last deposited my smelly bounty, and dreadful things were brewing. My gut had been aching on-and-off but I hadn’t, despite many efforts, been able to squeeze out the villainous shit-log which was determinedly gummin’ up mah works. But now, we were on our way home from Cedar Point, and about an hour into our drive I realized that 12 hours of consuming nothing but deepfried lard and sugar at the amusement park had finally awakened the horrorterror of fecal wrath which lives in my colon. Violent, stabby pains lanced my abdomen, and I suddenly was made aware that I needed to shit with approximately the same intensity with which an Orca whale floating several hundred meters above the ground must fall. My stomach gurgled in agony, and suddenly I knew what intestines sounded like when they wanted to kill themselves. I needed to make my plight known to the rest of the vehicle.

“Mother,” I announced, “Satan has gathered his armies at Hell’s Gate, and that Gate is my asshole.”

In short order, we stopped, and I waddled gallantly into the dingy Speedway and into the miserable rat hole they called a restroom. There were two urinals and two toilets. In the point .3 seconds it took me to whip into the nearest stall and de-pant, I noticed shoes in the adjacent stall. I felt deep sympathy for them but, as butt cheek met porcelain, within me I knew that it was all over. There was no turning back.

For a moment, I restrained the cruel tides of fate and ass-batter, and I knew then how the men felt in the Enola Gay, knowing that with one, subtle movement, Nagasaki would be no more.

My stomach crowed its dirge of loathsome apocalypse once more. I begged Nagasaki’s forgiveness.

“FOR NARNIA” I bellowed as I pounded the walls of the stall with balled fist. My genitals had long since retracted into my body like a dick-turtle out of pure terror at the coming crap-aclysm. For an instant, the compacted crap at the colonic exit held, too long dried and hardened to budge. But the white hot atomic fury of the incoming B.M quickly overpowered it. At t+ .04 seconds my sphincter was outclassing jet-liners in terms of thrust. My asshole had metamorphosed into a Space-Shuttle powered by Mach 5 shit and shame. The Sun has has solar flares which have ejected less material with less intensity than I propelled blistering diarrhea from myself. The tiles into which the toilet was bolted had cracked, the walls of the stall all shuddered and creaked away from the nuclear asstastrophe. The tank on the toilet exploded because it committed suicide. I knew precisely what the word “shitstorm” truly entails.

At this point in time, the infernal and eternal Eldritch majyyks which have clearly possessed my rectum begin flowing outward from my innards with the shit, a sewageous torrent of evil energies, promulgating bizarre events and upsetting the very balance of nature.  Dogs in the surrounding 4 counties won’t stop barking for two days. The Ohio river flows backwards for ten minutes, a seismograph in Belize registers a 2.4 and somewhere in Albania, a gastroenterologist begins to weep but doesn’t know why.

There is one ultimate, cacophonic explosion of shit which thunders from my now-gaping poop-chute, a concussive blasst which rattles silverware in drawers up to 3 miles away. In this moment, I am the peaceful eye of the hurricane, I am Nirvanic, I am bliss itself. My soul rests, having cleansed itself of the grimdark turd-taint which had infected it. As little dribbles of overflow shit glide down the exterior of the bowl, and the sewage stench of my criminal droppings waft throughout the bathroom, simultaneously I hear two things: My stomach gurgles once, and I realize with terror that it is not over. In fact, the worst has yet to come. And my stall neighbor says, and I quote: WHAT THE FU-

There’s no longer a Speedway there.