Whoppers are Evil
I was at Target the other night and went down the candy isle. Why? Because I’m a masochist. And there on the shelf is the box of Whoppers. You know, the milk-carton-sized one. Full of malted milk ball yumminess. I told myself, “don’t buy it, you’ll just sit and eat the whole thing in front of the TV!”, but before my self had finished the sentence, the carton was in my cart. It must be fate.
So, after a couple days of eating a few here, a few there (and not in front of the TV, even!) I did get serious eating them the other night. Yes, in front of the TV if you must know. At one point probably 2/3 through the box, I turned to my wife and said “hey hon, do you want some of these? I know you’re not a huge malted milk ball fan, but thought I’d offer…?” to which she slowly adjusted her glaze in my direction and replied “are you just asking me to eat a couple of those so that when you finish the box you will be able to think at least you didn’t eat the entire thing all by yourself?” Ouch. Its painful because it’s true. She just knows me WAAAAYYYY too well.
Next time I’ll ask her as soon as I crack the box open.