Monday, June 22, 2015

Flapjack Fracking

Maple syrup (organic), a mountain of pancakes and the dingy bathroom in the basement. Water leaks down here, in a basement in grey, foggy Jersey, but I'm feeling tops. I've got a couple thousand kilograms of perfectly combined flour, eggs and milk. This great stack of flapjacks makes me grin wide and evil, and I damn near take out three of them at once. I fold, then stuff the saturated, dripping disks of heaven into my mouth, without shame sitting atop a toilet seat.

I didn't always resort to eating pancakes in a dungeon like setting. But when my girlfriend moved in, things changed. The obvious benefits of living with her (of which I am so gracious) are outweighed tenfold by her restriction of my pancake intake.

"You're addicted," she cried. "Your killing yourself. Can't you see it? Your going to get fired at this rate. Then we will never be able to move out of this dump."
(I like this dump.)

"Your being dramatic," I said. "I'm fine."

"Oh really? Look at yourself," she said, before holding a mirror in front of me. (Don't ask where she got a large mirror from.)

I looked at my reflection in horror. She went out to dinner with coworkers, and I told her I had something to work on. I actually had just laid in bed with my pancakes. I could barely lift my arms from my body, due to excess syrup residue. Pancake mix was stacked around the room like cocaine, and I had rolled a three stack together, creating a pancake monstrosity. I stopped chewing the fat, pancake creation and lamented, "I need help."

Though she held me close, hid all the necessary ingredients and helped me get clean, it didn't take long for me to find myself locked away, in a bathroom basement eating life's sweetest nectar.

"Honey?" my girlfriend's voice called.

Oh shit. Her footsteps neared, coming closer and closer. I tried to finish them all, before. she....

"Oh my god," she gasped.


"Open your mouth," she demanded.

"No," I shot back, in a muffled tone.

"I can smell it. I can smell it. You're not even using the toilet."

I hung my head in shame. But this time she had a more drastic plan.

"It's called shock addiction treatment. They will show you pictures of the thing you are addicted to--" she looked at the "doctor".

"Pancakes, flapjacks, silver dollars, hubcaps, platters, charlie browns..."the doctor rang out.

"Right," my girlfriend said. "When it's finished, you won't want them anymore."

"Your brain will associate those Saturday morning delights with the pain of the shock. You ready?"

Of course he wasn't really asking me. I was already strapped up to the machine. Leads covered my body from my temples down to my ankles.

"Okay," I sighed.

"Love you baby," my girlfriend said. "And with this part of your life over and done with you can start working more hours and we can finally get our dream house."

"Dream house..." I said as a pipping hot, steaming pile of pancakes appeared on the screen.
One moment, I saw myself dining on the morsels, the next I was sent into an uncontrollable spasm.

"C'mon... what kind of sick, twisted quasi-scientific..."

More pancakes showed, this time chocolate chip. And again, electricity surged through my body.

"Baby," I plead. "I'll quit. Just end this madness."

"The doctor said you would say that."
Again and again, the treatment continued.

A couple weeks later, I was clean and clocking extra hours at work. I hadn't so much as thought about a pancake. To celebrate my sobriety, I met my girlfriend for lunch at a Brazilian restaurant in Hoboken. After parking the car, she looked over to me and said, "I'm so proud of you."
As we made our way to the restaurant door, a mad, zany, sleep deprived kid came running up to us yelling something unintelligible.

"What are you saying kid?" I shook him.

I'm interning for the radio station. It's just upstairs, and we are having a contest. My contestant just called out sick. Please help me out. The winner gets thirty-thousand dollars."

I perked up. My wife pushed me. So, we followed the kid up the stairs excitedly.

"Alright," he said. There is only one round. Let's hurry."

"What is the contest?" my girlfriend asked.

Her question was answered. On top of the table, inside the station's studio sat three plates of pancakes and two contestants already seated.

"Oh man," my girlfriend yelled. "We have this in the bag." She kissed me, told me to kick ass and stayed outside, while I was seated before a plate, pancakes, syrup, a knife and fork.

"Alright, we have our third contestant for WXRY's monthly flapjack fracking contest. On your marks.Get set. Go!"
I shoved my fork in, going with my old fold and stuff technique, but the moment it touched my mouth pain shot through me, and I shook in my chair almost falling to the floor.

"Hey, what's this guys problem? Eat the cakes," the radio host yelled.

I tried again, but the same outcome befell me. And the thirty-thousand dollars went to contestant number two. My girlfriend started to say something, but I put my hand up and said, "Let's just go home." Nothing more to say.