Chapter 3

I am an egg-frying mofo...no for real...I'm like the best at it ever. It may have been my calling, in as much as preparing deposits from a chicken's butt can be a calling. Working the ol' griddle my first year at the ol' IHOP may have been the apex of my young existence, that may seem sad to you but let me explain. You see I just didn't merely see it as making pancakes, omelets, or the high-lite of my day a "Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity"(try saying that and not smiling, I know I can't do it), I saw it as art...and I was working on my masterpiece everyday. The way I saw it, the griddle was my blank canvas that I got to start the day out with...my painting instruments were my trusty spatula and my random meat stabber thingy...I got to paint with grease, lard, butter, stawberries, snozzleberryies, and God knows what else. People may have only thunk what they ate was just an unusually extra tasty meal, but what they didn't know was that a little piece of me was in every platter.
DISCLAIMER: By saying that a little piece of me was in every platter, I don't mean that I hocked loogies or who knows what else in unsuspecting customers food. I'm talking about pieces of my soul here people...so please let's get the mind out the gutter folks...okay...I did do something I'm not proud of once, but he really deserved it. (Let it be know that if you talk bad about Bono, a little karmic debt will come your way. And I will help you pay it!!! You NEVER SPEAK ILL OF THAT MAN...HE WROTE "BAD"!!!!!!!!!)
Where were we??? Oh yeah...The griddle was my art.