Whopper Coma

I have done it. Done what? The impossible. How’s that? I put myself into a coma by eating about fifty whoppers within twelve minutes.

So much for losing weight. It’s how you wear it anyway, right? As long as there are no health concerns, I don’t see what the problem is.

I don’t even remember what it was like, the whopper coma. You see, I was pretty out of it.

The whopper coma lasted maybe twenty minutes, and was characterized by feelings of guilt surrounding a tummy threatening to get bigger, and how offended I was that it, with all these whoppers coursing through my body, I was probably 50% whopper at the time, no doubt.

I don’t remember much besides the guilt, but then there was this big blur, and before I knew it, I’d snapped back into reality. You may say, though: “Mara! Silly! You probably took a nap!”

Plausible. Very plausible.

However, I contend that the coma was induced by an outrageous amount of delicious, small, chocolate-covered malt balls. It never felt so good to be completely out of it, except if maybe I just forgot what was going on, which happens, and decided to zone out.

I do remember a comment being made that my sudden lapse into another, more delicious realm could, medically, have to do with the sheer metric ton of whoppers I downed in what might rightly be called: “The incident of the whopper” . . . and I wonder why I never seem to lose weight. (Oh well!)

Of course, “medically,” in this case, means: “No training as a doctor at all.” Still, the commentator could be an expert. Many people aren’t as they seem (looks around suspiciously).

You only live once!

Seriously though, if you give me a whopper, you can keep it. I’m full. Not just that, but if I had my blood tested, a befuddled doctor would probably look at me and say: “I don’t know how, but your blood type is ‘whopper!’”

Why wouldn’t he say “congratulations!” after saying something like that?!