Whoppers are like crack cocaine heroin oxy and special k combined. I eat one as I walk by the candy dish. Within minutes, I'm hunched over the bowl, shoveling them into my chocolatey maw with both hands. And when somebody starts to look at me funny, I take two fistfuls and shove them in my pockets, then saunter away, looking casual despite the bulging cheeks and gooey smile. I'll eat them in the bathroom, with the door locked, and the tap running to mask the sound of the crunch.
It's good to have a plan, isn't it?