What would those USDA scientists think of you now, strung out and skinny, living at the bottom of a trash can? They would think you deserve to be doused in backwashed root beer and blanketed with grease-slicked napkins used by someone with a saliva-transmittable disease.
How is it that you're hand-cut by the happiest staff in all of fast food and still your insides are stiff and cold and devoid of the lush, velvety texture of your craveable contemporaries? I don't know how those kids in the paper hats can look people in the eye and serve you. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were made of yuca.
Where is the playful kiss of salt and the sassy coating of canola oil? You are roughly as flavorful as the puff of air that optometrists use to check eye pressure.