In an industrial-strength waffle iron, a waffle cooks in three minutes, burns in five, and humiliates in ten. The beautiful metamorphosis from batter to delicious breakfast dish relies on a delicate balance mediated by the iron cocoon. The following is a warning; a message from the dark grid of the waffle maker: created by man, used by man, but not controlled by man. In the realm of waffles, the iron is king and we, the humble subjects of Awfulwaffulonia, are at its mercy.
Friday, 8:00 PM
Craving for the robust breakfast experience only a waffle can deliver overwhelms Mark Thomas. Fasting begins in preparation.
Saturday, 1:00 PM
Past the sacred hour of indulgence, a groggy Mark Thomas, disoriented from oversleeping, spends the remainder of the day waxing waffles.
Sunday, 11:00 AM
Mark enters line for waffle makers. Judging of maker etiquette ensues. Special attention is given to fucking idiots. Mark jokingly asks person in front of him if he’s sure he doesn’t want some French Toast or something.
Batter selection process begins.
Batter selected, batter disk poured. Mark: +1
Mark checks progress. Status: undone. Mark concludes that this must be a “slow” iron, proceeds to contemplate how much better slow irons are than fast ones.
Mark turns iron on. Iron: +1
Anxious to maintain prominent status in the Waffle community, Mark checks waffle prematurely, upper and lower hemicakes separated in the process. Mark grunts loudly, makes visible effort to display annoyance at such a rookie error. Ends up looking like he takes this sort of thing too seriously, which he doesn’t, really. He’s just careful about it. That’s all. Mark: -1
Mark threatens iron with talk of pancakes. Mark: +1
Cafeteria Ironmaster tells Mark to remove waffle. Frustrated onlookers grunt in primitive approval. Iron: +1
Mark peels paper-thin waffle shavings from Iron’s unforgiving grid. Victory: Iron
River of tears silently bathes conciliatory slice of French Toast, powdered sugar does little to sweeten bitter taste of defeat. Iron: +.5