Meat me in some fun disco

It doesn't happen very often but last night I visited a certain royal-sounding burger establishment. Being that I hadn't eaten since the previous evening I was particularly hungry so chose the largest burger on the menu.

Behold, 'The Triple Whopper'.

Yes yes, I know I'm a greedy bum so there's no need to tell me.

I suppose the warning signs were present when I plucked it from the bag and realised I needed two hands to haul it out. It may have looked like three meat patties in a bap, but the BK chefs may as well have simply trotted out of the kitchen to an adjacent field and glued half a bun to each side of a perplexed cow with mayonnaise, then wiped its bum and hearded it into a paper bag with a portion of fries clenched between it's buttocks.

Not that it wasn't lovely, after all it was meat in bread, but it was a hard slog. When my friend suggested we leave the restaurant I was forced to tell him "I'll need a minute I'm afraid" accompanied by such sighing and rubbing of tum that I could have been mistaken for a heavily pregnant lady. When we did finally leave and we said our goodbyes I was enduring a beef-overload and was so incoherent I could merely moo and wave a hoof as a vague 'farewell'.

Actually, since I mentioned pregnant ladies earlier, have you seen this symbol on wine bottles?

Now I know it's saying that it's not recommended for long haired darts players, but doesn't it just look like a flimsily adapted 'No Pregnancy!' warning? Maybe it's a Chinese ad-agency and they simply replace what the woman is holding.

I wonder how many times they've gone for the Viagra contract.