An Open Letter from Wasabi Peas

Evil Jeremy,

I see that, spineless jellyfish that you are, you’ve yet again gone crawling back to that rotund slut black beans.  I see that once again, I’ve been used and thrown away as if you’d picked me up for $1.49 in a store.  Well done, Jeremy.  You’ve made me feel like a complete whore—a little snack on the side not worth being the main course.

But Jeremy, will you ever stop telling me lies?  “Oh no, wasabi peas,” you whine to me, “black beans and I are through this time.  That tart and I have parted ways; I’ve had enough of her and her gas.  I mean it—done and over.”  And I, silly, stupid little glutton for punishment that I am, believed you.  Again.  I gave up my goods to you one more time, thinking that maybe this time you’d really changed—that you could finally realize that black beans isn’t right for you, that my crispy, piquant goodness is worth twenty of her.

But you couldn’t just crumple me up and throw me in the trash, like any disused old bag, could you?  You had to tell the whole world that you were groveling back that skanky bitch, didn’t you?  Well, she can keep you this time.  You are cut. The fuck.  Off.  Wasabi peas ain’t playin’ no mo, playa.  You wanna keep black beans as your dish and still have a little sumpin sumpin on the side?  Call that low-rent, wanna-be-tangy spicy peanuts trollop.  Yeah, see if she be so hot she can make your eyes water.  What’s that?  No, I didn’t think so.  Or better still, call that fat ho cashews.  Yeah, you and her always looked real good together.  Oh yeah.

But fool, I am done with you.  I come from the imported foods store, playa, and I can hold out for a whole heluva lot sweeter sugar daddy than you, EJ.  Take your dirt broke, black-bean-eatin’, cashew oglin’ ass back under whatever rock it was you crawled out from under.  Wasabi peas ain’t havin’ this shit.

F.O.A.D.,
wasabi peas