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I don’t eat pancakes. I don’t like them. I haven’t had one since the Ford Administration.
I used to like them at one time. There was time when Mom or Dad would break out the white Tupperware mixture bowl that was marked for measurement and came complete with a lid. Into that durable vessel, they would compile all the necessary ingredients to be poured onto a hot griddle, and subsequently doused, drenched, and drowned by just enough of Aunt Jemimas finest to put my five year-old body into a sugar shock sufficient enough to power a small town.
One morning, while we were eating what potentially could have very well been one of my most favorite breakfast foods at the time, I asked Dad (the smartest man I knew) one of the most important questions a five year old kid can ask. “Dad, why do dogs sniff each others butts?”
Never being one to lead my brother or me astray, Dad looked up from his manly stack of pancakes, and bluntly told me the truth.
“Well it seems that many years ago, all of the dogs got together and they had themselves a great big pancake breakfast. All of the different breeds, from all of the different countries in the world came for the big event. Thousands and thousands of pancakes were made just to celebrate the massive gathering. Just as all of the dogs were getting in line to get their pancakes, a rogue dog jumped to the front of the line, ate all of the pancakes, and escaped without getting caught.”
I looked over at Mom, who for some unknown reason was rolling her eyes, and then I turned my gaze back at Dad. “But why do they sniff each others butts?”
“To figure out which dog ate all of the pancakes.”
Not being a big fan of having dogs sniff my butt, I immediately made the decision right then and there to discontinue my further consumption of pancakes.
