by Balls Malone
Okay, you know what?
Fuck you, Quaker Oats Man! Fuck you and your little self-satisfied, twinkle-eyed, shit-eating smirk. Fuck your stupid neckerchief and your puffy, dandy hair, you goddamned chubby-cheeked sack of shit. What are you anyway, some kind of nineteenth century pimp?
Don’t fuck your hat, though. I’ll give you this one: your hat is pretty cool. For a pimp.
You think you’re real fucking special, don’t you? What the fuck are you smirking about, anyway? Like you got some real secret, special info, or some shit. What could you possibly know about oats that anyone would give a fuck to know? Nothing, that’s what.
Your only fucking secret is that you’re balls deep into farm animals every night of the week. Raper Oats, more like it.
And what the fuck does your stupid religion have to do with anything? I have no interest in knowing what religion the guy providing my breakfast food practices. I’ll eat your goddamned oatmeal, sure, but you can take Quakerism and shove it up your ass with whatever else you put up there for your jollies.
So, in short: fuck you, Quaker Oats Man. Fuck you.