An Open Letter to Miracle Whip: Please Tone it Down

Dear Miracle Whip,

Hey, it’s FunnyCrave here.  How are you?  Hip, I bet.  And edgy.  We get that over here, we do.  FunnyCrave was founded as an ironic hipster non-humor site.  We only post jokes ironically, because we don’t want to laugh.  You know Atom.com, Gunaxin, Cracked, CollegeHumor?  We’re their hipster nemesis.  Like if they post a list-based article, we’ll post one that just isn’t funny.  And we won’t even explain it.  And we’ll be wearing loafers at the same time.  And aviator glasses.  And we’ll drink peppermint tea because coffee is for fucktards stuck in 2008.  Grow up, kiddies.  This is now!

We don’t want to give you the wrong idea, Miracle Whip.  We get you.  At the office here, we have nothing but Miracle Whip.  We have this little fridge, and when we go up to the roof to chillax (that’s what we call it when we relax, because we chill too, because we’re cool, even though we don’t call ourselves cool, because that’s uncool), we take Miracle Whip.  We make Miracle Whip and deli-sliced ham sandwiches and that ham is so thin.  Like so fucking thin, we can barely stand it.  It’s so fucking thin you can see through it, and what we see is a world that can’t handle us.  It just can’t.  In this world’s button-down, conformist system, there’s no room for people like us.  But we’re not going to change.  Man, if we want to TiVo So You Think You Can Dance and watch it at the same time So You Think You Can Dance is on next week, we’ll do it.   Or like, if we don’t remember to rinse that can of peaches before it goes in the recycling, so what?  If the man can’t handle it, the man needs to get out of our town.

But listen, here’s the thing.  Miracle Whip, it’s just too much.  We need you to tone it down.  We know you’re totally against toning it down, but we need it.

See, last week, we’re up on the roof chillaxing (remember how that’s when we relax but also chill?  That’s what we were doing) and our intern Marvin was making himself one of those deli-sliced ham sandwiches and he pops open the Miracle Whip and fuck!  Fuck, Miracle Whip!  FUCK!  Marvin is dead.  No shit, he died.  He opened the Miracle Whip and was expecting nothing to be toned down, you know, like usual, but the Miracle Whip just fucking killed.  With his butter knife.

We get that it’s hard to be a condiment, and to have mayo looking exactly the same and being all fatty and shit and boring and you need to step up the game because fuck mayo.  We heard the rumors, MW (can we call you MW?  People call us FC).  We know you were working late at the animal shelter one night and you came home and there’s mayo, balls deep in your woman.  Fuck man, that’s rough.  But shit…MW, Marvin didn’t hurt anybody.  And here he is making a sandwich and then bam, butter knife right in the lung.

Yeah, lick it. Lick that whipped salad dressing

We don’t even want to know how a jar of salad dressing picks up a knife and stabs a man with it, MW.  That’s not what this is about.  Or how mayo fucked your wife because when you think about it, there are a lot of things wrong with that sentence.  Honestly, if we were to really take that statement apart, it’s fucked up.  You have a wife?  And your wife was fucked by mayonnaise?  What does that even mean?  But that’s not what we’re here to do.  We’re on the same page, man.  We’re not the Inquisition up in this bizzatch.  We’re all about live and let live.  But like, Marvin can’t live anymore.  On account of his being dead.  You know, butter knife in the lung.  We tried to call for help and all but our edgy phones have 912 on autodial because we were making a political statement (not sure what statement, but it had something to do with Ron Paul) and we didn’t get ahold of anyone in time.

MW, we just want to have hipster parties on our roof, man.  We got Zinfandel in our little fridge and we know girls who have short hair and wear vests and there are patio lights up there, man.   Patio lights!  And fuck, Marvin actually knows a guy in Deathcab for Cutie.  Seriously, we saw a pic of them together on Facebook, it was wicked cool (but not cool. Because it’s uncool to say that).  Now we have to send an email to the Deathcab for Cutie guy and let him know Marvin’s dead.

MW, it’s not easy to tell people your intern is dead.  First they’re all shocked but they want to know how, and do you know what no one is ready to hear?  No one is ready to hear that you were all up on the roof with the patio lights (fuck, they are sweet patio lights MW, for real) and you’re having lunch and Marvin had a piece of bread in one hand (12 grain, baby!) and the Miracle Whip stabbed him.  To death.  People ask questions about that, MW.  They say things like “What?” and “Wait, he was stabbed at work?” and we have to sort of nod and shrug at the same time (we call shnodding).  Then they say things like “That doesn’t make any sense” and we’re forced to agree, MW.

You need to tone it down, man.  Just a little.  We have two detectives here right now and they’re interviewing everyone who was here and they’re really not buying the whole “Marvin was stabbed by Miracle Whip” story.  Not even a little.  You know what they said, MW?  Don’t get angry and edgy, but they said “Miracle Whip is a condiment, sir.”

Mayo and fries? Sweet, can you shit in my Sprite, too?

We hope you don’t think we’re being mayo about this whole thing, man.  That’s the last thing we want.  Fuck mayo, man.  Fuck all those Euro jackasses who eat mayo on French fries.  What the hell is that about anyway?  We’re totally on the same page, MW, for real.  Like, if we saw mayo on the street, we’d be all “Why’d you fuck my boy MW”s wife?”  Well, probably not.  But we’d do something edgy and passive aggressive.  Like if mayo was walking that little dog of his, we’d be all “Hey, your dog just shit here!” and we’d make mayo walk back and check, but really there’d be no shit and by then the light would have changed so he’d have to wait longer to cross the street.  Then we’d take a picture of him with our old Polaroid camera. Ha!  Take that, you creamy white douche.

We’re not saying you need to become a tool of the system, man.  For real, MW, we’d never want that.  But like, maybe you shouldn’t kill people anymore.  Everyone else in the office is kind of off sandwiches altogether right now ever since Marvin.  We’re kind of scared of being stabbed, you know?  Lots of people brought soup today.  Don’t worry, it’s totally hip and ironic soup.  And the crackers are as edgy as shit.  But like, there’s this great deli down the street and there’s a sale on turkey breast, so a sandwich would really rock.  But not so much that it’d be worth dying.  Especially since Marvin got stabbed even before the sandwich was done.  Like, fuck.  Didn’t even get to eat.