Dear the Pillsbury Doughboy, You Jerk,

Hey! What's up, you ugly blob of dough! Hope you're well - NOT! I had you fooled for a minute there, didn't I? As if I want you to be happy! Even the thought makes me laugh, and not in the creepy little way you do. In a mean way.

I'm assuming I don't need to explain why I'm so angry. You know what you did to deserve this strongly worded open letter, you little marshmallow bastard. It was really, really bad and now I'm mad. I didn't mean for that to rhyme. I hope that doesn't take away from the fury of this letter.

Anyways, I hope someone bakes you soon. Seriously, you're at least 50 years old. I'm no baker, but I'm pretty sure you've gotta be super stale by now. Gross! (Just like every other thing about you!) I don't even know what kind of dough you're supposed to be. You're super pale, also - what's up with that? I hope you turn out to be Grands! Flaky Layers biscuits because I like those and would enjoy eating your dead body in that form the most, probably. Actually, I would eat your corpse no matter what baked good it was - I just hate you that much.

I better not see you at Thanksgiving this year.

Adios, JerkFace!!

Ellen >:/