Our Bookseller says:
18 years on, Letters to Wendy’s has aged like fine wine or a Baconator (invented three years after LtW was published) left in the sun depending on which direction you look at it from.
It’s a comedy, unless you work in food service, in which case it’s a horror story. It’s one long toilet joke, except for when it’s a deeply engaging psychosexual exploration of American consumerism. It’s about fucking a chocolate Frosty, and yet the divinely pornographic image of Wendy is a dark mirror to how Catholics liken Mary’s breast milk to Christ’s blood — the Lactatio Wenderoth.
Why do we eat what we love? What does it mean that the vanilla Frosty (invented two years after LtW was published) resembles thicker, more virile cum than any human could possibly produce? Is this book why Wendy’s doesn’t have customer comment cards anymore? Letters to Wendy’s raises question after disturbing question, and frankly I don’t want any answers. — Terry