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Parsley is Gharsley: A waffle kurfuffle, or: How the heck can’t you people figure this out?

By

There’s nothing quite as awful
As the beeping of a waffle
Iron when I am still waking,
Thinking only about making
My little bowl of Lucky Charms.
And those stupid, shrill alarms
Echo round the dining hall
Trying frantically to call
To that foolish, careless student
Who’s so hopelessly imprudent
They’ll let their waffle be neglected.
And I’d really have expected
Any person not rejected
From this school to have detected
That on each iron is projected
The steps by which waffles are confected.
But each day I see some flake
They admitted by mistake
Pouring too much batter on the grid
Then closing up the iron’s lid
And standing with a frightened stare
As the iron’s screaming fills the air.
Look, you morons, here’s the deal
For making waffles without the squeal:
First, with the can of oil spray,
Mist the iron from six inches away.
You need just one and one half scoops of batter
And how you pour it doesn’t matter
‘Cause it spreads out even on the iron’s face
(Over that much drips all over the place.
And don’t add sliced banana or chocolate chips
Or the waffle burns and easily rips.)
Now shut the iron. You’ll hear the sound
Of it wailing to be turned upside-down.
So grab its handles, and to make it stop,
Twist them to flip the bottom to the top.
The iron will go quiet, and you should see
Its clock count down from 2:45 or 3:00.
But for the love of all that’s fair and just
Don’t leave your waffle unless you must
For when the clock hits zero, then
The dumb machine will scream again.
And with each beep, I swear it’s written
God kills a cute and fuzzy kitten.
So with one second left, or two or three,
Flip it back over to how it used to be.
Lift the lid, and with a fork pull down
What should be perfectly golden-brown
And should fall cleanly on to your plate,
Embossed even with Stanford’s seal.
Add cream and strawberries for the perfect meal.
So do it right, each breakfast and brunch,
For each beep you let slip equals a punch
To your karma, and could take years off your life
When you’re stabbed by a pissed diner’s butter knife.

Hey, waffle kurfuffler, are you mad Robin called you a moron? Hopefully, you’re not, but contact him with your own mealtime pet peeves at [email protected].