To break free of this fattening monotony. A day out in West Virginia with my fellow members of The Waffle House Gang.
God, the old gang. It must be 4, 5 years since we last did battle with The Waffle House Gang.
Wait. Aren’t we the Waffle House gang?
Oh, my God. We’re The Pancake House Gang. Those pitted ne’er-do-wells of The Waffle House Gang are our arch enemies.
Dredge me in eggy flour and call me Harold, I don’t even know which side of the breakfast fence I stand on anymore. I might as well identify with a goddam bowl o’ cereal.
And Daniel didn’t even correct me when I misstated our doughy affiliation. Perhaps he thinks I’ve joined the Darker Side. (Waffles are generally darker than pancakes. Get it?)
It’s more likely he thinks I’ve gone all soft-boiled. He and Muhammed will be laughing all day at my descent into the ordinary Joe’s daily grind.
Maybe they’ll weep.
And I won’t be there to defend myself. Or them.
For I must clean.
I only hope they can continue to fight without me.
Is this what London has done to me?
Say it again, Andrew — “I am not a waffle … “