In reality, the Hamburger King is a three-hundred pound slab of poorly cooked beef, leaving behind him a glistening trail of blood and grease wherever he goes.

He wears a tarnished golden crown and a robe of cholesterol-soddened cloth.

His servants tend to his every need, which is usually just demands for condiments and to be patted dry with paper towels.

Each morning they skim off the layer of congealed fat from his surface that materialized overnight.

“Aren’t I lovely?” he asks his in gurgling, raspy tone. “Don’t you want me your way?”

And they nod and smile and do their level best to control their gag reflex as they prepare the king for the daily address to his adoring, obese subjects.

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