Fuck You, Arby’s

Fuck you, Arby’s.
I’m trying to get to your cashier,
to get at the meats,
but your fucking store
closed its fucking doors
fifteen minutes before closing time
because unlike the rest of America,
you don’t seem to believe in customer service
or dedication
or money.

I tried to explain to the fuckers
washing the fucking floors
that they owed me the chance
to buy their fucking food
but they were too busy
not doing their fucking jobs
and ignoring me.

Fuck you, Arby’s
and your fucking employees
and your fucking fake-ass meats
that taste nothing like any fucking cow
under the face of the fucking earth.

See you tomorrow.
Fuck it.

About Jonathan Berger

I used to write quite a bit more.
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