Give Me Breakfast or Give Me Death

This might look like a perfectly innocent stack of pancakes to you, but to me it's none other than my archenemy, The Starch Goblin. To understand the very nature of this conflict, one would have to go back to my childhood; All the way back to June 17th, 1980. I was only five years old and I was already getting compliments on my boyish looks. The Alabama morning sun was flaring through the glass sheets beside our breakfast booth. My Dad was sporting his black Ray-Ban's and sucking on a mint toothpick. He always wore those glasses when we had a pretty waitress and this time we had a real knockout with perky bosoms and long silky legs to boot. Mom was pretending not to notice the pin-up girl waitress while requesting a replacement coffee, bubbling hot. That was the way Mom liked it. I’m not sure why, since she would just sit there blowing on it until it cooled some. Dad didn’t bother her about it. He was in a stupid eyed daze, nervously rattling off the names of some dishes on the menu. Mom started to hum her happy tune that she always hummed when she wasn't so happy. It was kind of tune that said, "Enjoy your time now, ‘cause later on you're gonna get it." I can still hear it humming to this day.

I remember the scene like it happened just yesterday. The waitress glided over to our table with a formidable tower of sweet cakes that were designated for yours truly. My Dad chortled with a fine mist shooting from his nose and patted me on the shoulder, "Eat em up, kiddo. They're all yours."

The waitress flipped her copper brown tresses with one delicate hand and turned her curvaceous hips back to the kitchen to get the remaining dishes. I don't know what it was about those pancakes. Well, now I do, but then I didn't have any clue. I refused to eat them. I began wailing as if my parents had asked me to take a shower or to stop playing with my Rubix cube. Mom wore an inspiring angelic smile, while Dad put on a foolish demonstration about the goodness of pancakes by saying, "Mmm, mmn," over and over again, licking his lips and rubbing his belly in furious circles. I began to think that he had gone mad and I became more frightened and my crying grew heavier.

"Let me and your Mom show you how good these pancakes are," he said.

They both dug their forks into the bread-like mountain when I heard a starchy roar and my parents screamed in rabid horror as the pancake stack bubbled and morphed to the size of a giant bear that was not a bear, but an indomitable pile of ghastly pancakes. It was The Starch Goblin. The Goblin ate my parents with butterscotch syrup and pecans. That sick monster actually took the time to prepare the meal to its own liking. At one point, I remember it filling up its mouth with whipped cream and topping it with a maraschino cherry.

I bolted from the diner within an inch of my life. I too would have been devoured if I hadn't defended myself from the clutches of the sugary beast with my Mom's scalding hot coffee. I couldn't do a thing to save my parents, but even while they were already half digested in the Goblin’s cavernous bread basket, they had found a way to save me. My Mom always insisted that her coffee be boiling hot. I wonder if she knew why. I like to think that she did. I have never been able to forgive myself for the death of my parents. I've replayed that morning in my head over and over again for decades and I still long for a day in which I could once again meet with that flapjacky behemoth and send it back into the breakfast hell from whence it came. Where are you GOBLIN!!! Show your delicious golden yellow-brown face, you coward!!