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Dear Ms. Deen,
Hi, I'm Wilford Brimley. I have diabeetus.
I heard that you, also, have recently been diagnosed with this terrible condition and wish to express my sympathy for you in this trying time. Are you on Medicare? Do you know that the best way to combat the ‘beetus is to check your blood sugar regularly? As a veteran of the ‘beetus, I thought I'd offer you some friendly advice. Oatmeal, for example, is a much better breakfast choice for you now than your Cheesy Ham and Banana Casserole. Quaker Oats™ is an excellent choice, if I do say so myself. A tasty way to do the right thing, as it were. Oh, all right, maybe even the warmest bowl of oatmeal is not as tasty as your Brown Sugar Bacon, but we diabeetus-fighters can't be choosers.
You know, I have to say, I was shocked to hear you'd sat on this news for so long. Of course, it's not easy to live with diabeetus -– I'm living proof of that. But I always frankly thought of you as a silent partner. After all, your recipes have been supplying the diabeetus industry with new patients in record numbers! I knew you weren't directly employed by any of my companies, but still. You have to admit that your Krispy Kreme Bread Pudding is likely to send even healthy young bakers into sugar comas. I've admitted publically that I myself have indulged in the past – apple pie, ice cream, etc. (Of course, your Fried Apple Pies look like they perhaps have just a tad more fat and sugar than the old-fashioned variety, but I digress.) I imagine it must have been excruciating for you to choke down a few of your Donut-bedecked Brunch Burgers while knowing that your bloodstream was slowly turning into a river of pure caramel. Shoot, your show has probably kept me in paychecks for the past 5 years! And this brings me to my main point…
Bitch, if I hear a single fucking word about you taking my job, I will be on your deep-frying ass like a honey badger on a bad day. You even think about signing a contract with Quaker Oats™ or Liberty Medical™ and I will end you. I have carved a niche for myself in this pitiless industry. You think its easy finding a job in this town, you butter-peddling shit? I'm 77-years old, for fuck's sake, and best remembered for Cocoon. COCOON. Want to help me count my co-stars who are dead? Yeah, I didn't think so. These commercials are all I've got, woman, and now here you come, high-stepping your diabeetus-ridden ass onto my turf. When I saw you getting all cozy with a drug company, my mustache started twitching in a rage NOT related to my blood sugar. My mustache is NEVER WRONG. Speaking of that mustache, don't you dare forget that I am the FACE of diabeetus! No one, especially not someone who uses butter like social lubricant, is going to take that away from me.
So remember, check your blood sugar regularly and try to resist almost all of your own recipes. Most importantly, remember to get to steppin', bitch cakes. I am not even playing with you. I know where you live. I can infiltrate Savannah like a motherfucking snake in the grass.
It's the right thing to do, goddamnit.
Sincerely,
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