Dear Panera Bread employees

You fucking syphilitic little shitheads.

If I ever see your slackjawed drooling little cro-magnon faces in public, I will run you over in my car. And back up. And drive forwards. And back up. And drive forwards. And park on you, then squeal my tires and drive off. And then come back and pee on whatever's left.

Your job consists of either (a) pushing buttons on a register or (b) following simple, explicit instructions in the proper creation of a sandwich. Both of these tasks requires nothing more than the brainpower of a turd from a retarded frog. Not only should you have the cranial capacity to do your task plus carry on a conversation, chew gum, and avoid drooling, but you should also be able to do these things with a speed higher than an old man riding his Rascal down the sidewalk on his way to the liquor store.

To the poster child for abortion running the register: Fully 90% of your products involve bread. If you are out of a specific type of bread, this would be something that might be helpful to tell the customer before they order a sandwich on that bread and pay for it, expecting it to be on that bread. The same goes for bread bowls. If you don't even know if you're out of a major part of your inventory, you really should have skipped work, stayed home, and played hide the flesh pickle with your gross step-dad, okay? At least that way, only the person who deserves it would be getting fucked.

To the dead-eyed rabbit turd-brained skull-fuckee who prepares the sandwiches: It's bread, meat, tomato, dressing, lettuce, bread. That's it. You could even make a mnemonic out of it if you were having problems: Beat Me To Death. Love, Bobby. See? Your job is so easy that I'd like to attach electrodes to your little prepubescent testicles and shock you every time you take more than twelve seconds following a fucking picture diagram! In kindergarten, were you the one who just sat there and peed yourself while everyone else put the round peg in the round hole and got a gold star? Maybe it would have been better if your mom had just left you in the car with the window cracked while she ran into the casino for 8 or 9 hours to gamble away her welfare check. At least, then, you'd have a reason for the massive retardation that emanates from you in a palpable wave.

I hate you all. You make me fear for the future of society and weep at the potential for America's youth, but mainly you make me want to inject Ebola into your eyeballs. And once your face has melted off, I'm going to let the nastiest, rankest homeless man I can find with a rancid, rotting penis skullfuck you until your head actually explodes in an explosion of pus, semen, and more pus. This could have all been avoided had you just shown a modicum of intelligence, common sense, and ability to function in normal society.

Fuck you all, and may you die a fiery painful death.

Love,

Adam

P.S. My chocolate chip cookie was very good.

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