Why It's a Bad Idea to Eat an "Angry" Sandwich with Extra Pickles OR How Pre-Super Bowl Advertising Infected My Brain and Nearly Killed Me.

Did you ever have one of those existential moments when just as you were about to do something totally insane, the one sane cell left in your brain lets you know you are about to do something totally insane, but then dies just before it can stop you? That is a bad moment… let’s call it the first stage of hell.

In recounting this story, my first memory is of me sitting in my car at the drive-thru window of Burger King. I have no idea how I got there.  I am fairly certain I hadn’t been drinking for the previous six hours, nor had I lost a poorly wagered bet. Regardless, there I was.

The speaker beckoned, “May I take your order sir?” I could have said no.  I could have just driven away. I could have ordered a salad or pretended to not speak English.  But the words I never thought would ever come out of my mouth simply erupted: “Yes, I’d like an Angry Whopper… (wait for it)… and can I get that with extra pickles?”

Naturally,  the speaker did not tell me that this sandwich doesn’t come with pickles and, therefore, “extra” makes no sense.  After all, this is Burger King, home of have it your way; I am fairly certain they would have given me cyanide if I had the good sense to order it.  But I didn’t.

As I drove around to the pick-up window, I sensed shame and joy holding hands in the backseat of my car; that is the second stage of hell, when the best and worst of times become intimate in your backseat. .. and you are forced to drive them around, pretending nothing is happening. Yuk.

At the pick-up window, and I remember this with clarity, a woman whose eyes begged for the type of freedom William Wallace died for, simply smiled as she handed me the “bag” and suggested I have a nice day. And this is the memorable part: she barely reached out the window, forcing me to make the conscious choice to grasp for my order. Stage three.

Now what? Clearly I had not thought this plan through.  Yes, I was wise enough to use the drive-thru, but where was I going to take this bag of food? Unfortunately, I knew the answer immediately and simply pulled ahead into an empty parking spot. And no, the word “empty” was not lost on me. Stage four.

The Angry Whopper was, as I suspected, a taste-bud sensation… or maybe more of an overload.  I began sweating almost immediately – partly from the heat and mostly from the embarrassment.  I was unable to locate the nutritional value of the Angry Whopper on the BK website before placing my order, but I was fairly certain after one bite that I was well within the 900-1,200 calorie range.  And it was delicious.  Stage five… denial.

Like most pleasures, it did not last long.  As I backed out of my space and idled the drive of shame to the main street, my stomach started talking to me.  “What is wrong with you? Where is your self-discipline? Where is your pride? Why didn’t you order onion rings?” Stage six.

I began to weep, or maybe I was burping up pickles… this part is hazy. But I know what happened next, I woke up.  Yeah, turns out I was having one of those Advil PM-induced crazy dreams about that creepy, plastic-headed Burger King and his Angry Whopper.

And while I feel perfectly fine blaming this dream on the onslaught of pre-Super Bowl commercials (coming 2.3.13) I can’t help but wonder what else might be at play.  Stage seven, when you’re no longer sure if you are awake or dreaming.