Whopped.

Everyone's apparently got their knickers all twisted around and seized up on account of a new Burger King ad in which people from Overseas (you know, the mythical land where people drive on the left side of the road and despise capitalism) who have never eaten a hamburger before are forced to choose between a Whopper and a Quarter Pounder.

Here is the ad:

Now, because we recognize Burger King as the bastion of journalistic integrity and a reputable academic foundation for studying sociology, we can assume that when the ad states that everyone chose the Whopper, you can bet your ass that every damned one of them not only shit their pants over the Whopper, but they probably fed the Quarter Pounder to their cat, and then kicked their cat's ass for eating such a horrible sandwich.

At least that's what I got out of the ad.

Apparently people are all huffy over the ad, entitled "Whopper Virgins." I'm not sure why it is offensive, because after all, it's a hamburger ad, and if you feel your calling in life is to advocate for more wholesome hamburger ads, well, don't anticipate anyone writing any songs about you any time soon.

Apparently the folks at Burger King traveled to a foreign country, found some innocent bystanders minding their own business and then the Burger Kings opened up their trench coats, exposed their Whoppers, and deflowered the townsfolk.

Again, that's what I got out of the ad.

"Hold the mayo on mine." Jeez I don't know why I write these things.

But I must come out of the proverbial closet.

If these people are Burger Virgins, then I am a Burger Slut. I have been with a lot of burgers. And not just one. I'm not monogamous. I'm not faithful to the Whopper. I've done the Big Mac, the Quarter Pounder, the Big 'n Nasty. One time in South Carolina I ate one called The Thickburger, and it came slathered in butter-flavored shortening.

I've done weird things with burgers. I've taken pictures of them. I've had two burgers at a time. One time I had some friends over and we all had burgers right there in the same room, together. On the kitchen table no less.

That having been said, I would like to suggest that if someone's first time eating a burger is a bad one (for instance, if their first time is with a Whopper... seriously, when they call it "Whopper" it says one thing to me: overcompensation), it will likely leave a bad taste in their mouths and they will not look forward to having burgers again.

Folks, having burgers is a glorious thing. It should be fun. You shouldn't feel guilty. And you should never let anyone pressure you into having a burger.

Especially if you are a Burger Virgin.

Do any of you ladies know which way is the gym?

I recently started working out. I've started working out so many times in my life that working out would almost seem like a regular activity in my life if it weren't separated by so many expansive periods of inactivity. I think that if you were to chart out many times I've started working out, and how many times I've gone between working out, I would have to be 70 years old for it to all work out mathematically.

I'm always looking for a new motiviation to work out. I hate working out so much that if I cannot put together a solid argument that will hold up in the court of my mind, I simply cannot make myself get on the treadmill. Obviously health would be the prime motivation, but if I had an accurate view of health, I wouldn't be in the position I'm in to begin with, so in order to circumvent logic, on that charge I plead insanity.

In the past, I've used many motivations: Fit into my wedding dress, look like the kind of guy that can really kick somebody's ass, stupid things like that. But then I realized that with the help of a seamstress I can fit into anything, and all I need to look like an ass-kicker is a snazzy haircut and a pair of fingerless gloves.

One time I found motivation from a Nike commercial where a middle-aged man was running across the Brookly Bridge. In a voice-over, you hear a woman, presumably his wife, say "Bob doesn't do it for pride. Bob doesn't do it for glory. Bob does it for Bob."

This resonated with me because, when I saw this ad, every effort I made thus far were either for pride or glory. I had never done it for "Bob." So I put on my Nikes and hopped on the treadmill.

After five minutes it began to sink in that a Nike commercial not only motivated me, but made me strap on their product. I immediately stopped the workout.

Surely Bob wasn't dumb enough to fall for this ad either. Maybe when she said, "Bob does it for Bob," she meant he was running across the bridge to go get a burger at Bob's Restaurant. Or maybe he's cheating on her with a man who is also named Bob, and he just tells his wife that he's going jogging when really he's just running to Bob 2's house for some afternight gaylight.

Then the ad ends up being for a new line of Nike's For Women, which feature metal treads and a steel toe. "Nike for Women. Plant one in his ass today."

Later on I saw another ad where a middle-aged man was running on another bridge but this time we found out that after the workout he likes to cool down with a low-carb beer. I would like to see this asshole go for a jog after he has about twelve of them.

So then, what is my new motivation?

Simple. I learned something about target heart rates.

I was brought up, by virtue of basketball practice, that if, at the end of a workout, you do not have someone else's vomit in your hair and shit running down your legs, you haven't worked out hard enough.

Modern science has found that this is what some call "overkill."

Apparently, all a 25 year old has to do to burn fat is maintain a heart rate of 125 beats per minute for a half hour or so. I can do this whilst making a sandwich.

You see, if you work out too hard, you stop burning fat and start burning glucose. This causes your blood sugar to drop, which makes you feel hungry. So you work out like a wild man for thirty minutes, burn twelve calories, then go to McDonald's and eat deep-fried dog squeeze (kudos to Rick Lloyd for that one) and ultimately you find that you've gone up one rung on the ladder only to go down two rungs, and then you break the rung because of your fat ass and then you fall off and break your ankle.

So now when I work out, instead of strapping my washer and drier to my back and running the stairs for thirty minutes, I just go sit on the exercise bike for thirty minutes and go for a nice little stroll while I read a book or listen to music. The bike has a little heart rate monitor which allows me to make sure I'm not busting my ass.

Apparently this whole "target heart rate" thing is no new secret, but I'm so ecstatic over it that it's like finding a miracle drug. Or one of those electric belts that you strap on your gut or your ass or your double chin and it supposedly shocks the fat off of you while you jack off in the kitchen.

I know I've dropped my workout routine before, but I really feel like I'm going to stay with this one, mostly because it's so damned easy to work out now that it actually takes more energy to concoct a reason not to work out than it does to just go think about it while I pedal away.

So everything is working out great.

(By the way I haven't lost any weight yet and now I'm hungry all the time because my metabolism is supercharged.)