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Which One Of You Shitheads Stopped Buying Our Margarine?

All right, fuckos. It's time to come clean.

Don't even pretend like you don't know what this is about, because I deserve a little more goddamn respect than that. I go to all the trouble of giving you delicious, healthy, butter- flavored spreads so your family can come together for once in your miserable lives and smile and laugh and sit around a picnic basket full of blueberry muffins, and you pull this shit? Did you honestly think I wouldn't find out? Well, Q1 earnings are in, and apparently one of you 42.7 million Country Crock–consuming motherfuckers decided it was high time to jump ship.

You've just made the biggest mistake of your life.

Which one of you was it? Come forward now, or I'm coming after you. And don't think I can't find you, either. I don't spend millions of dollars every year on market research just to get fucked sideways by Joe Consumer. Uh-uh. When I saw sales were down, I just pulled up a spreadsheet detailing trends in each of your margarine- buying histories from the time you were knee-high to a duck's ass till last Friday, when you—a college-educated male or female, probably married, living in the suburb of a major city—decided you were going to stop buying Country Crock like you've got a choice in the matter.

I know several characteristics about where you live, I know the kinds of professions that tend to interest similar consumers, and I'm going to track you down, fucker.

Three days. That's how long you have to come forward and stand in front of me like the scum you are. Just get yourself, your pissant husband or wife who makes $65,000 to $160,000 a year, and your 2.6 children into one of your two cars (the SUV), drive to my satellite office in New York and say, "I'm sorry Mr. Cescau. Within the last three months, I decided to act like a shiftless moron who figured he'd save a little money by feeding his family an inferior margarine. A margarine void of Homestyle Goodness. A margarine that isn't rich, tasty, or filled to the fucking brim with 500 milligrams of omega-3 alpha-linolenic acids. Sorry about that, Mr. Cescau. I'm a shithead."

You're going to repeat that to me verbatim, or I will come to every three-bedroom, $250,000 to $395,000 house between Maine and California and ransack refrigerators for evidence of Parkay, or Land O'Fuckin' Lakes. It may take weeks—months—but unlucky for you, we just finished developing our new line of microwaveable side dishes, so I have all the time in the world.

And when I do find you, I am going to tie up your entire family, pry open your filthy muzzles, and force-feed Country Crock Plus Calcium and Vitamins down your throats until you cry out for mercy.

My sweet Christ! What happened to you? Margarine buyers are supposed to remain loyal to their brand. You hear me? Loyal. What went wrong? Country Crock not wholesome enough for you anymore? Doesn't spread easy enough? Or maybe you're just a miserable sadistic shitbag who gets off on seeing a CEO take it up the ass every once in a while.

Look, I didn't ask for this, okay? I wanted to be an actor. But my father told me on his deathbed that I had to run the Country Crock Empire, and here I am. Do you know how hard it is to live up to a man who took margarine out of the hands of the poor and into high society? Do you know what it's like to live your life knowing that the only reason he had you in the first place was to ensure his margarine-making legacy? He didn't love me. He didn't care. Well, you know what, fuck him. Fuck me. And fuck you, too. We make choices every single day, and you chose to abandon me. What do I need to do, create a margarine that cures fucking heart disease? Is that what you wanted? Is that what you wanted, Dad? Would that have made you proud of me?

FUCK!

I'm sorry. I'm cool now.† I didn't mean the things I said earlier about force-feeding your family margarine. That was uncalled for. Times have just been tough lately. My son is getting in with a bad crowd, my wife threatened to move into her sister's place last night, and my 15-year-old daughter started dating some guy named Gary. Just please, for me, come back to Country Crock. I'd hate to think we spent all those years whipping you up a taste of the farmland for nothing. Come back, please.

Please come back.

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