Dear Burger King Whopper,
Awwwww damn, baby. You know that I can't resist your fine flame broiled sweet meats. I put my mouth around you and feel your love juices drip onto my chin, my heart tumppy-tumps with each sweet swallow of your succulent succlentness.
When I masticate, I only want you to be there.
No other chain-produced meat product fulfills my longing. No other burger has the softest buns that I can sink my fingers into and squeeze to my heart’s deelite. Your tomatoes beckon my teeth to nibble. Your perfectly sliced onions make my eyes weep with tastiness. Your lettuce and pickles smack my tongue around like the ho that it is.. but then it’s comforted by your perfect ratio of mayo and ketchup.
Nah, shit, baby. You don’t need no fucking mustard. You are tasty just the way you is. Damn tasty.
I want to be the mother of your Whopper, Jr. I want you to lay me down in a pile of tastier fries and make sweet burger love to me. I want you to smack me around with your quarter pound of meat and call me your bitch consumer (“Whopper? Damn near killed her.”). You say that I can have it my way? Nah nah, baby… it’s your turn to have me your way. Anyway you want me.
Dammmmmn, you is one fine burger.
Ain’t no other burger out there that compares to you. Wendy? Who’s that ho? I’ll smack her ass down faster than you can say “adoption.” McDonalds? They won’t have a smile on their face once I let them know that the Whopper is the True King. Jack in the Box? Ain’t gonna be no damn Jack in my Box… you know whattamsaying babee?
So Whopper, I’m asking you… will you be my Baby’s Burger? Will you be my boo?
I’m a fucking burger, bitch, what you smoking?
I await your answer sweet, tasty, burger.
PS. Daaaaamn you are goooood.