Dear Mr. Horton,
Although I never drink the plonk that mascarades as regular joe at your outlets, and though your specialty donuts are nothing but sub-standard attempts to cash in on whatever aspect of "Canadianness" seems most exploitable at the moment, and though your iced-coffee is a caffeinated abortion, and though the youth of today refer to your product as "Tim Horkin's" for very good reasons that I will not go into here, and though giving somebody a "flavour shot" is about as appetiszing as it sounds (please note: a blob of caramel dropped into lukewarm coffee in only technically a flavour), and though the plebian dorks that frequent your restaurant engage in conversations that consist entirely of Boy! Look at all that snow, eh?, and though I know nothing about your new business partner other than that they are not the guys who make the rectangular burgers, I nevertheless wish you well in this new phase of your corporate existance. May your coffee, in particular, out perform McD's one day. And to all you folks relocating from Miami, Florida, Oakville is so called for its trees. Next to it is Milton (forming "Oakville-Milton") and it is named after some guy named Milton, who founded it. Not John Milton, the guy who wrote Paradise Lost. Just some other guy. And no more beaches for you; in winter, the women of Oakville-Milton dress like sofas at a funeral home.
I hope you like it there.