So when I was about five, my dad worked in food advertising. His company did an account for Whoppers, and they of course gave the company some courtesy product. Now, nobody really wanted that many fucking Whoppers. So my dad's boss said "Hey, Chuck. You've got a kid. Here, take some Whoppers." My dad glared daggers at him, but then took them anyway. He came home, put a half-gallon milk carton-sized package of Whoppers in front of me, and told me to enjoy.
I have not eaten Whoppers since, and have always eaten comparatively little candy. I have to ask my dad one of these days if it was worth cleaning up the puddle of malt puke.