A letter to the pickle company

To the fine people at Van Holten pickles,

I'm writing you to express the deep satisfaction I've experienced with your product. Some time ago I stumbled across your pickles, disheveled, at the bottom of a cooler in a local grocery store; a display unbecoming of the admiration they deserve, in retrospect. Instantly I was infatuated with the prospect of a "sour pickle". I love sour. I love pickles. Never before had such a synergistic compilation of olfactory stimulation been placed conveniently before me in its own individual wrapping. I felt obligated to buy one on that merit alone.

My first sour pickle was eaten in the company of a tuna fish sandwich. I quickly learned, however, that it was indeed the sandwich which was second to the pickle, as the tuna succeeded only in diluting the awesome flavor of the Van Holten. I've since concluded that your pickles are best eaten by themselves, lest the accompanying food item be delegated a role of ancillary filler. At present, I eat perhaps two or three of your pickles per week.

Yet the potency of your brine is not the telling aspect of my testimonial. Rather, it is what I eat your pickles in spite of that shall serve as vindication of my endorsement. You see, eating one of your pickles causes me to **** profusely. At first I thought it was only a coincidence. No, it must have been that entire can of corned beef hash I ate last night, I would think. Perhaps I need more roughage. Yes, that's it. A bowl of Raisin Bran with my hash next time, and I'll be all set.

Unfortunately this was not to be the case. As time went on I could see there was a distinct and undeniable pattern: I eat a sour pickle; I wait a few hours; I **** with a vengeance. I try to hold it off sometimes, like I might with an average bowel movement which strikes me at an inopportune time, but it is to no avail. The Van Holten sour pickle cannot be contained by any mortal sphincter. Just the other night I found myself atop the porcelain repository, hands clutched in a white-knuckled death grip to the tub and sink at either side of me, my *** in a seemingly perpetual cycle of dry heaving as it searched the deepest recesses of my bowels for more of the virulent filth to expel. I couldn't have stopped it if I wanted to. The process was completely involuntary. As I sat there, diaphragm convulsing, I reflected on my decision to consume your product. I reflected, and I had no regrets. My dedication remains steadfast.

I must also confess to offering a bit of free advertising on your behalf, albeit in a form that's viewable to a select few. I couldn't resist, upon reading your packaging, clipping out the section which reads "contents: one pickle" and affixing it to my belt buckle. You may rest assured that everyone who removes my pants and inquires as to the origin of the pickle advertisement receives nothing less than a favorable review on your part.

Your loyal customer,
Donovan S. Cummins

P.S. It should also be noted that I've yet to sample the Little Pepe picante pickle. I recommend in the meantime you take the opportunity to purchase stock with the Charmin corporation.