Charles J. March III 日 28/11/2020 · admin No comments


Even though the Impossible Whopper was probably conceived in a lab by a mad cow diseased scientist, I’ve recently exhausted all my go-to DoorDash options from the comfort of my couch and have turned into a total pile of methane gas trapped trash, so—I figured it was time to try something different and get some fresh air, which is when I decided to take matters into my own unsanitized hands by jumping on the anti-cattle rancher bandwagon on my way to a Burger King drive-thru (while their spurious livestock supplies lasted), especially after seeing their gratuitously ramped up commercial campaigns that have been prodding me for a seemingly unending number of months now.

One of the perks of the Impossible Whopper is the feeling you get from helping the environment by reducing your carbon footprint, so after putting the pedal to the metal in my gas guzzling Tin Lizzie and driving halfway across the county to the closest kingdom of what I was craving, I all-of-a-sudden found myself in the queue. Then, once I realized the grave mistake I was making, I burned rubber by trying to back out, but somebody had pulled up behind me, and I was trapped. Like a free-range farm cow, my fate was sealed.

As I approached the window, I was hoping to see the plant-based pop cultural icon Snoop Dogg, and fantasized about asking him if the flame-grilled to perfection anti-bovine incarnations cooked on the same flattop as their beefy stepbrothers were as divine as the O.G. Whoppers, with him then giving me his classic, cute little high as hell smile and resounding, “Yeah, dog, they’re fire!” But instead I got some miserable, subhuman, Sub-Zero face masked looking adolescent cash register character, and when I asked him if the Impossible Whooper was any good, his eyes slightly opened and rolled in a weird way, which seemed like his internal monologue was saying something like, “Good god, this poor guy has no idea what he’s about to do.”

When he ambivalently responded, “I guess they’re ok,” I told him I’d take one, and had him put as much cheese on it as humanly possible, so I could milk every last drop of dairy out of the experience. He then sighed and rang up the order, and I could tell that he was again not happy, probably saying something like this to himself, “Ok, whatever man—it’s your funeral.”

He then whipped the burger into my car like a frisbee, to avoid any contact, and proceeded to awkwardly, with ungloved fingers, gingerly place a cardboard Impossible Whopper crown on my head, and said, “Have it your way.”

Since I wanted to dine alfresco and imbibe in my quasi veggie patty while it was still nice and steamy, I decided to sit down next to some other patrons that had plopped down on the curb where neon aquamarine colored wrappers were going with the wind. Already starting to get seasick, I sat about a six-inch sub length away from some confused man with tics who also had the BK gimmick and was struggling to eat it whilst doing a balancing act on his lap, as hot mayonnaise dripped all over his pants. I didn’t have to wonder what he thought about it, as he let out a Tourette’s syndrome scream, “Damn this thing’s good!” So I took it as a sign to begin my mission impossible.

After meticulously deconstructing it, I began staring at the slashed 2 for $6 priced sandwich so intently that I started to dissociate, to the point that the doppelgänger whopper began to take on anthropomorphic facial features, and looked as though it had been dropped on its head after the conveyor belt conception. The poor hockey puck had been seared into submission by BK’s classic cattle branding rack marks, and looked like it had been “cooked to fuck,” as Gordon Ramsay would say.

As I took my first bite of the 100% frozen, never fresh, non-grass-fed beef alternative that was smashed between two slices of gluten shackled bread, pseudo hemoglobin shot into my mouth, and I felt an inscrutable, indigestible sensation flood my body, as though I had been blasted in the head with a stun gun, which caused an out-of-body experience, where my soul astral projected to some dystopian universe, which left me in a depressed, vegetative state. It tasted like a clump of Captain Planet’s hair, and smelled like weed killer. But they did manage to capture the cartilaginous gristle feel with whatever ammonia-rich gooey pink paste was injected into the hunk of mystery meat.

It was like eating someone’s stay-at-home work boot.

May God smite anyone who calls this kosher.

I love animals, but I think I’d rather club a baby calf and serve veal ravioli to a Hindu than consume this unholy sacrament of the pseudo vegan gods. And I’d probably rather go to hell than eat this counterfeit health-conscious sandwich ever again.

I thought I’d feel a lot better about myself afterwards, but since it’s only 30 calories less than the original, I still felt like a sorry sack of potato protein.

And after learning that there’s a shit ton of estrogen in it, it makes sense now that I woke up this morning with a nice set of tits.

It’s great that they’re starting to donate the imposter Whoppers to the American Nurses Foundation, but I think I’d sooner see the people on the front lines starve than have them eat something that could wind them up in the hospital and on a ventilator, not from it taking their breath away, but from knocking the wind out of them.

All in all, the Impossible Whopper could quite possibly be the worst thing that’s ever been in my mouth, and as a man that’s been unemployed for the past month during these desperate times, that’s saying a lot.

Hopefully Joaquin Phoenix is happy.

Charles J. March III is a person currently living in California. His work has appeared in or is forthcoming from
Evergreen Review, Chicago Tribune, L.A. Times, 3:AM Magazine, BlazeVOX, Expat Press, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, Maudlin House, Misery Tourism, Litro, Otoliths, etc. More can be found on LinkedIn & SoundCloud.