Death to Burger King! A guestpost by Lady Head

Five years ago, on a day not unlike this, I ate a Burger King chicken sandwich. What followed should not be accurately described in the interest of decency, but suffice to say i suffered what probably was the worst episode of food poisoning in my life. For years i swore off Burger King--full well knowing that maybe, just maybe it *wasnt* the sandwich that destroyed my intestinal stability. After all, i worked in a lab that studied conditioned taste aversions (CTAs) with Hot Rod for some years. A CTA basically occured when my body said: you got sick and you ate Burger King chicken. Dont fucking touch it again. But my mind knew CTAs could be tricky and the illness could have been coincidence. But 5 years i let my body tell Burger King chicken sandwiches to fuck off. In fact, i boycotted the entire establishment. Until i married the Head. Just this past year, i let him convince me to eat Burger King. Probably cuz i was on the Atkins diet at the time, and burger patties from anywhere sounded better than those cardboard tasting low-carb pasta noodles. So i ate a couple patties and i was fine and life was good. And as Hot Rod and i know, CTAs will fade with time. My 5-year CTA ended yesterday evening, when Lord Head convinced me to eat this spicy chicken sandwich from Burger King. As we pulled through the drive thru i says to Head, i says "if this chicken sandwich makes me sick, WE (not the royal "we" but WE as in Head AND I) will be boycotting Burger King forever." Head giggled. What were the odds of me getting sick again, 5 years later? Head never believed Burger King chicken could have harmed me in the first place.

But the tyrant rose up to punish me yet again. By midnight yesterday, i was intimately involved with the trash can next to my bed. I was PUUUU-KING. And not one of those cute little vomits where i could still carry on a conversation with Lady Ash-hole between chucks. This was fucking-kill-me-right-now-Satan-is-leaving-my body-in-an-unholy-rage-vomit. Vomit that was so fucking disgusting that its mere presence just caused me to vomit more. I had the chills and when i finally stopped yakking, my stomach felt like it contained broken glass. When i woke up this morning, my voyage in to class was curtailed by the other end of my alimentary canal, which apparently felt like it missed out on the action last night and now needed to participate in the fun. In fact, my typing here has been punctuated by trips to the old l'eau.

So FUCK BURGER KING. That cocksucker fast-food fuckwad is gonna pay. Head's gonna try to blame it on the vodka. Never fucking mind the quart of vodka i washed the sandwich down with last night. Vodka-induced puking is not the same. Its much more pleasant. And vodka doesnt give me the poops. And if it were the vodka, well hell, i'd be puking all the time since i pour about a quart of it down my throat every other evening. I've got one hell of a CTA to Burger King now, and i will never fucking ever eat at that shit-hole again. And that's not good enough. I'm out for blood. So it is now my mission to turn the Head against Burger King. I wont stop until his Burger King boycott is permanent. Death to Burger King. Bitch, i'm after you now. Hell hath no fury like a woman's intestinal tract scorned. Twice. Five years apart. Join me in solidarity, friends. In the FUCK-BK campaign. Death to Burger King!