American Star
North Wales, sickness PA
Preface to an Ode
-Robert Alan B.
I promised to leave in all tangents, supportive and otherwise. Upon reading I hope your imagination will actively reinforce all weak clauses, negate grammatical errors and detect an inexplicable lemon-fresh scent which you will find puzzling – but pleasant.
Enjoy.
Ode to a Waffle
-R. Alan Bellosi
At the behest of an engaging creature, I have endeavored to critique a waffle. The first obstacle I encounter is the stark realization that critiques are in fact not of an object but an introspective for the observer, whereby I’ll reveal nothing about a waffle but everything about myself. It is my impression of a waffle. Ultimately, it is the reader who must decide whether I enjoyed a diner house waffle with an attractive, captivating woman or, in a deranged state: consumed a dumpster-gym-sock behind a diner in the company of a toothless crack-slag, possibly wielding a penis. Diners are horribly patriotic places. They are encrusted in homeland colors with mascot depictions of anthropomorphic eagles drinking whiskey and driving pick-up trucks. It is in this setting that I encounter a Belgian Waffle.
The waffle batter is a composite of bleached flour, mammal lactation, poultry ovulation and baking soda, with trace amounts of insects and other unappetizing anomalies of processing. This batter is then poured over a rotund bi-fold grill with cubic indentations where it is oxidized. The cubic indentations create exquisite little pockets for holding maple flavored corn syrup and whipped butter. On the side there are hermetically sealed packets of maple-masquerade syrup, and
hermetically sealed and pasteurized packets of synthetic fruit flavored mush derived from used condoms and tar, presumably.  These are entirely unnecessary however, as the waffle comes with a choice of real fruit, forged in the soil of the earth.
I chose banana (or in Espanola: “bananaâ€) and my lovely dining companion chose blueberry. The banana reserves had been poorly inventoried and had been depleted; despondently, I digressed into a strawberry consolation. The Waffles arrived; like consoling-Visine for waffle-longing eyes they were.  Gorgeous dollops of Whipped cream, confectioned sugar –biutiful powder strewn about like superfluous stripper-bait cocaine at a slick-ass executive soiree… and the taste?  It’s a waffle covered in syrup, whipped butter, whipped cream and confection sugar. How the fuck you think it tasted? It was like a mouth full of hot sex.
I consumed ¾ or 75% of my waffle serving, most academic grading standards would grant me a solid “C†for this achievement; I however received and an “F†for my efforts. I sympathize with this jeering
because it is a devastating waste when one reflects on the many-many hands it takes for a fully prepared waffle to get to one’s plate. The briefest of summaries involves a lengthy and very involved
relationship with live stock, taxes, human resource departments, farming, immigration, taxes, fuel, oil, war, stock exchange, prostitutes, scumbag politicians, more taxes, unions, product packaging, graphic designers, a manager to do coke in the office, more prostitutes, employing diner staff including servers and cooks, another manager to do coke in the office, drug cartels, coke mules,
more taxes, stocking deliveries, prep work, electricity and so on. It is an abundantly elaborate orchestration utilizing the entire world economy just so some skinny bastard can eat ¾ of a waffle.
This was a very memorable waffle. The experience left me in a euphoric state of awe and on the cusp of insulin shock; all plans of murdering my recently acquainted companion had been dissolved.
