Whopper Freakout

I wish I could have felt those hideous teeth of yours biting down on this hard-on I have right now. But I'm supposed to be preparing a hamburger and I don't have time for old ghosts haunting my brain like the jazz of Albert Ayler. They're going to throw me in the river just like they did to him. The Burger King Corporation is NOT to be fucked with by anyone. Jazz musicians, Presidents, and average sacks of doughy flesh like me have all felt their wrath. I never signed up to be a statistic. I just wanted to flame-broil beef patties and serve them to old women and mexicans. But you had to show up with those gnarly chompers of yours. You had to fuck it all up for me. My manager is yelling all sorts of degrading things at me. About my weight and poverty, mostly. The spatula is slipping out of my hands because of all the fear sweat pouring down from my wrists. Fuck this, I never needed a spatula to hang out with my friends. Now I need one everyday. I am having trouble flipping the patties because of this non-stop barrage of verbal abuse. The burger blaze is getting higher now and it's creeping dangerously close to the bulge that's tenting my polyester work pants. Oh shit, are these pants flammable?!?!??! I guess I'm about to find out...