[This is specifically why I don’t write onion… err… opinion pieces.]
“And in the morning, I’m makin’ waffles.”
– Donkey, from Shrek (2001)
The Critic(s): “But Chris, this doesn’t make any sense. Pancakes are in the title. I… We don’t want to be deceived, duped due to such devious duplicity!”
Chris: [Places finger over lips of critic(s)] “Shhh… It’ll be okay.”
Pancakes. What Goes Into Them?
- Baking powder
There are no certain amounts, but I’m pretty sure it would vary depending on how or who you are making them for. This is just as an idea.
You have the standard pancake. It’s plain. You can put butter and/or syrup on top, the amount to your personal liking.
But what if I want more?
You can’t, because you’re a brat.
When deciding on the pancake to order, when one opts for options, is it best to choose to have the goodies inside or outside the cake?
Oh, the answer is simple–inside.
Oh, of course you would say that.
Why? I’m guessing your the type who likes the toppings
on the outside, where the toppings can spill all over the
place and onto the table surrounding the plate.
It’s not that bad, unless you are that type of eater.
I’m not that type of eater. It’s just simply inevitable
that some toppings will spill out onto the table. The
butter acts as a catalyst for sliding.
Now that is a load of bull. Butter is not a sliding catalyst.
I never said a “sliding catalyst,” but a “catalyst for
sliding.” Let’s pay attention here.
This is not about semantics. It’s about “pancakes”
and toppings. Let’s stay on topic.
No, this primarily about “pancakes,” not “toppings.”
The “toppings” aspect is simply an additive.
Toppings go hand-in-hand with pancakes, which
is in similar fashion to chocolate and vanilla.
Chocolate and vanilla makes up the original twist.
Why didn’t you say that? You weren’t specific.
Whatev… Listen. Everyone knows the best twist
is orange sherbet and vanilla ice cream.
What about interracial relationships?
Dude, shut up. No one was talking about interracial couples.
Read the feed, will you? Christ.
You don’t have to bring Christ in to this.
He has nothing to do with ice cream.
Or pancakes for that matter… the original topic.
You people are dumb.
I’ve got better things to do.
What a jackass. Always trying to pick out the
simplest detail and cause an uproar with that.
You’re right. Fuck that guy. Where were we?
We were on the topic that you probably wear flannel.
I do. Whatev. That doesn’t make me a lumberjack.
I’m not a “lumberjackass” as you have so predictably
stated before and on numerous occasions.
You are a “lumberjackass” because you like Denny’s.
I so don’t like that plastic breakfast. That
junk is probably over a 1,000 calories.
It is, because you like your toppings on
the outside of your pancakes.
Don’t “Wow…” me, OK? I don’t like that fake,
syrupy strawberry goop on my hotcakes.
They are “pancakes,” not “hotcakes,” you
chain boosting corporate hugging asshat.
Well, soooorrrry. I didn’t know this would lead to my
getting bashed on such usage of quasi-trademarked
Listen. That clown has done a lot for children. The
Foundation, that is. All I am saying is that toppings are
contained inside of the cake(s). Strawberries, blueberries,
raspberries, blackberries, chocolate chips, peanut butter
chips, butterscotch chips, white chocolate chips, mint
chips, banana, apple,
Wow. You took all that time to write that?
Yes. The RMcDH has done a lot. I’m sorry.
That is no excuse for serving the fast food they serve.
Those are a lot of berries in that list… and chips.
Mint chips? I honestly don’t see that. That’s vulgar.
Anything is possible with pancakes.
Not so much mint chips. Also, what if the ordering
person decided to get more than one item in said
pancake? It wouldn’t work. The cake would be mush,
looking like vomit on a plate. Do you want to be served
vomit? I sure as hell don’t. Not everything is possible.
I supposed you believe in Neverland as well.
Then you order the limit of extra items to three (3).
If someone has an issue you can tell them they get
three (3) or they get plain. If they complain more,
take away their butter.
You sound like a fascist.
I am not a fascist. Keep talking and you’ll get the
other guy involved. You know, the guy writing in bold,
center adjustment? There was almost certainty he’d
chime in at the mention of “white chocolate chips,”
I don’t know what the hell would happen if a fourth
Yeah, I agree. Who knows where he is.
The fourth would have to be represented
by bold and italicized font. It makes sense,
and it would follow the pattern completely.
It’s always a pattern with you. You and your flannel.
What about underline?
You wear argyle. Underlining is only for emphasis.
Hey. I can still read what
you’re writing about.
We thought you left. Don’t you have better
things to do?
I’m on lunch.
That makes sense. You always make sense.
Isn’t it early for lunch?
It’s 12:17. All the talk of pancakes
was making me hungry.
What are you having? Where are you
Banana pancakes. My phone.
Duh. Whip cream and butter
pecan syrup. This is heaven.
Where are they serving pancakes?
At the diner down the road from
where I work.
[23 minutes pass]
Well, I thought someone was gong to
reference Jack Johnson, but I may as well.
[37 minutes pass]
No one was going to reference Jack
Johnson. Sorry, but not.
You waited all that long to respond? I feel
like even more of an idiot reading this convo.
Not my fault that you listen to hippie
simple surf music that my two-year-old
nephew can play on a broken guitar.
Oh, shut it. Johnson’s music is great. It’s
music you can make love to… on a beach,
during a sunset… or a sunrise for that matter.
Your pipe dreams.
Haha. I proposed to Jack Johnson.
Did he say, “Yes?”
You are such asses. No… you know
what I meant.
I bet your face is so red right now.
I’m going to slap you.
You totally just edited that comment. You said
something about beating my ass until it turns red.
I’m your wife. Don’t tell me, do it. But enough
of the bedroom talk out in the open.
Oh, man. Gotta go.
by Christopher Malone
The alarm struck seven,
she turned in her heaven,
pulling the sheets up-and-over
to the smell of linen, clover.
Why so early?, she asked to the birds.
This early? This Sunday? ‘Tis absurd.
For her glasses, she did reach.
Outside the covers, she did breach.
As the sun shone through
the window, it’s noon,
she jerks from a hunch,
OMG, it’s almost brunch!
With panic upon her face,
her kitchen still in place,
I forgot I’m the host!
Wheres the bread?! I’ll make toast!
Upon the guests arriving,
her story growing more contriving.
OJ. Coffee. Toast and eggs on a plate.
A facepalm for forgetting this important date.
Without a shower, and donning bed clothes
her fiance’s parents had something to loathe.
So much for everything. So much at stake.
Father-in-law asked, Where are the pancakes?