Waffles Are the ONLY Thing That Matters

So today I decided my need for a fresh, warm waffle smothered in butter and so much syrup you could drown in it, outweighed my need for anything else.

When I get these sort of cravings, and they happen quite frequently, everything else goes flying out the window.

After I finally managed to pry myself away from my computer and its endless supply of things to distract me from my need for waffles, it really hit me.  If I did not get waffles, my reason for living would be non-existent.

I texted my friend and convinced him of the urgency of going out to procure waffles.  He decided to spite me by taking a quick shower first.  All I could think is, "We're going to Denny's.  Not a fancy restaurant like Olive Garden.  There's no need for a shower."

Maybe I'm biased right now, but these waffles are darn important.

We finally get in my pickup and begin our drive to Denny's.

I talk feverishly about waffles the entire trip.

We get to Denny's and I begin to plan my waffle experience.  I'm going to have a lot of them.  That is, until I get the menu and there is only ONE waffle related item on the menu.  The Belgian Waffle Slam, which to my horror only come with one waffle, two eggs, two pieces of bacon and two sausage links.

I frantically searched the menus in vain for anything else waffle related.  But to no avail.

A small panic attack creeped through me.  I didn't want A waffle in its non-plural form.  I wanted a freaking HERD of waffles.

It was somewhere amongst this panic that the waitress came.  I made a hasty decision.

Me: I have a serious question about your waffles.  Can I just get the waffles plural and skip everything else?

Waitress: Yes. So you don't want the bacon or...

Me: Nope.  Just the waffles.

Waitress: So two?

Me: Three.  Make it three.  You have no idea how much my life depends on these right now.

She leaves and my friend has his head down on the table in total shame from being with the crazy waffle person and having to sit through this ordeal.

I'm feeling very comfortable with my future waffle situation when the waitress comes back.

Waitress: The Belgian waffles are $6.50 each.  Just so you know.

Me: *after a moments silence for what I'm about to say* Ok....just two waffles....

I sat there after she walked away, morbidly depressed and slightly defeated by how much waffles cost nowadays.  These had better be some pretty freaking impressive waffles.

I can see them!  They're here!

They look phenomenal!!!

OMG!  That's ALL I can say right now!  I'll write more later!!!

The waitress came over to check on us.  I must have given her a stay away from my waffles look because she got this terrified look on her face and booked it outta my waffle time.

Yall should feel very loved that I've been stopping every so often, mid-waffle, to write more of this waffle induced garbage.

My friend is telling me about this magical place where he's from in Virginia that serves nothing BUT waffles.  Not pancakes.  Not croissants.  Waffles.

I must go to this place.

I'm down to the last bite.  Which is ALWAYS the best bite.

Well the waffles are gone, but my love for them will live on forever.

Thank you all for coming with me on my psycho waffle rant.  Please don't look down on me for being crazy.

Why Clowns Really Are Hell's Minions

The circus was in town, and my parents decided to take me to it.  Probably because they wanted to go out, and the circus is the only place where a 4-year-old, like myself (who was prone to fits of excitement due to the fact that I had new Batman underwear, and fits of rage due to the fact that Batman was on the rear where I couldn’t look down and see him) was socially acceptable.

At some point in every child’s life, they nurture the idea of running away with the circus.  And who can blame them?  The circus is like visual crack for kids.  Bright colors, fancy costumes, fun music, and those are just the realistic reasons.  Most kids just want to run away with the circus for one of two reasons.  Because their tiny imaginations have told them having a pet tiger would be the best thing ever, or, they saw Snoopy do it.

Mine was a combination of both.                 

As we walked into the big tent, my mind exploded with the possibilities.  You could literally watch my pupils dilate and my eyes glaze over at the sheer grandeur of it all, like the way you can watch a deer’s eyes do the same thing as it stares at an oncoming semi.  And, like the deer, I was blissfully unaware of the horror that was to come.

This particular circus, to say the least, was mediocre at best.  The trained tigers, that I so longed to keep as pets, performed nothing other than their uncanny ability to evacuate their bowels at the sound of the whip, and then sniff it.

The trapeze artist was a dirty woman.  And when I say dirty, I mean she looked like she hadn’t properly bathed in a while.  She was wearing a thong that gave her a major case of butt floss, and liked to go up and down the ladders to the trapeze platform a lot, so you got quite the show.  Good thing too, because we didn’t stay much longer after that, so at least we got our money’s worth.

It was at this point, between the bare bottom trapeze act and the main event, the clowns arrived.

Up until then, I’d never interacted with a clown.  They seemed like alright chaps.  They sure knew how to make everyone laugh.  That is, until they began their sweep of the audience, picking out random individuals to smack on the head with their rubber mallet.

I watched intently as they made their way through the crowd.  A slight feeling of panic began to stir inside my tiny chest.  What if they hit ME on the head!?

 

You could tell the clowns were running out of time to perform their little stunt, because they began to jog around the crowd instead of just walking.  Needless to say, this didn’t help with my mini panic attack.

Finally the clowns made it to our section of the crowd.  I remember mentally preparing myself for the pain of getting hit on the head that was sure to come.  I didn’t, however, prepare myself for the clowns avoiding me entirely, and hitting dad instead.

I lost it.  Instant hysterics broke out.

Me: They hit my daddy…………………..THEY HIT MY DADDY!  THEY HIT MY DADDY!  DAAAAAAAADDDDDDDDDDYYYYYY!

Dad: Sammy, daddy’s ok, look!  I’m fine.

Me: THEY!  HIT!  MY!  DAAAAAAAADDDDDDDYYYYYYY!

At this point mom also tried to calm me down, because even though an average child’s behavior is socially acceptable at these sorts of establishments, I was quite obviously, not behaving like an average child.

Mom: Daddy’s ok Sammy.  It wasn’t real.  It was pretend.

There was no consoling my broken spirit.

It was then that the clowns decided to do their share in helping to calm me down.  They all walked over to me slowly, like a pack of wolves hunting their prey.

My crying increased tenfold.

They danced around and did their little clown things to cheer me up.  It didn’t work.  The last clown resorted to the last trick in his repertoire, the squirting flower, which he squirted directly in my face.

The cold water on my face and in my eyes shocked me enough to stop my crying momentarily.  A small convulsion trickled through my body as if I’d had a stroke, and not only did I start crying again, but this time, my world was over.

Needless to say, mom and dad decided it was time to leave.

It was from then on my parents took me to fairs, and not circuses.  Fairs have ponies, which are fun and cute.  Fairs don’t have clowns.

It was also after that circus, that clowns terrified me.  I was no longer able to watch The Brave Little Toaster without running from the room screaming during Toaster’s nightmare sequence.

Life as I knew it, would never be the same.