All over the globe people seem to be up-in-arms about something or another. Just two miles from where you are, boychik, hundreds of hipsters are in a privately-owned park waving placards decrying the same sort of inequality of in the distribution of wealth that has afflicted mankind since pre-historic times.
In the Arab crescent people are screaming for freedom and democracy, toppling dictators and tyranny—the only social system they have ever known. All over television airwaves this weekend, large steroidal men wore pink sneakers with pink laces and had pink towels stuffed into their tight nylon pants “fighting” against breast cancer.
Everyone has a cause and, I'll be the first to admit, all those causes are important and significant and worth fighting, even dying, for. That’s great and noble, maybe even Holy. But shit, it’s not where my head is at.
Sure I want world peace. I want cancer to be eradicated. And AIDS. And malaria. I want an end to human trafficking. To blood diamonds. To oil oligarchs. I want better schools for children, a ban on handguns, a widening of bike lanes. I want everything everyone else wants.
But what I really want is a large plate of perfectly golden waffles, smothered in sweet butter and inundated with a really good maple syrup. I don’t want out of the freezer into the toaster waffles. I don’t want hormonal Belgian waffles, pumped up and puffy like Barry Bonds. I want real, central-casting waffles, still hot from the waffle-iron, coated with thick all-natural grade A sweetness.
I want to eat these waffles, while they’re hot and crispy, then have another stack served to me, with more syrup and butter. I want to go on like this as long as I can. Until I need a bromo the size of a horse.
There's nothing wrong with baying at the moon. Trying to bring down evil. Toppling tyrants.
But sometimes, you just want a waffle.