Mortadella, what the hell are you? That is, besides utterly mortifying? I ask because I prefer not to eat something that looks like it threw up all over itself. Here’s the thing: Lunchmeat shouldn’t have the consistency of John McCain’s taint. Or be crunchy. So please mortadella, stop bitch slapping me through the deli counter window. The experience is like being at the Miss Universe pageant – before Lisa Lampanelli shows up wearing a thong. Tasteless and ill-advised. Just say what you are, okay? Nitrites, rat droppings and whatever else can be jammed into that sleeve. Make no mistake, charlatan, you're fucking bologna.
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