I plunked down the $4.50, waited a couple of minutes, then received the package.
It was warm. I felt the heat through the brown paper bag. The sensation was familiar, what with my background as a Burger King junkie. But it’d been years—more than four since my last hit. Sobriety hadn’t even been that tough. I’d moved on—chicken and fish, maybe a turkey burger.
But there I was, earlier today, standing inside the Burger King on Central Avenue, clutching a Whopper.
As my wife just told me, “Something is seriously wrong with you.” Ever since my fingers started swelling, I’ve been searching for answers. Too much salt. Too little water. Too much soda. Too much heat. Recently, I thought about protein—how I eat too few foods with it. So, in an ode to irrationality, I went back to the Whopper.
I retreated to the sanctuary that is my Prius. Sat down, unwrapped the burger. Held it to my nose and took a sniff. Ah, that old familiar sent. Goodness. Love. Home. Then I took a bite. And another bite. And another bite. The meat and grease and pickles and tomato all melded together atop my taste buds, one gigantic explosion of old-school bliss.
And now, I want to throw up.
I can’t describe how absolutely disgusting the Whopper is. My long-lost love … my Halle Berry, has transformed into Medusa. Little chunks of Grade-C beef, rolling behind my upper lip. It’s been two hours, and the nastiness lingers. My hands smell of Whopper. My breath smells of Whopper. My … Jesus, everything smells of Whopper.
Nasty, nasty, nasty.
