 |
| The word "muffin" originates from the old Gaelic "moofin," which means to rhyme with food in one's mouth. |
This morning I made acquaintance with a jocular old fellow when I most disgracefully shoved him out of the way in order to procure an "English" muffin from the breads cabinet at my local overcrowded cooperative bakery.
When I attempted to apologize, he said to me, "Slow down, Sonny! There are enough muffins for everyone!"
But are there? Are there, Dear Readers, enough muffins for everyone? I have seen the best of humanity and the worst of humanity, and I am not fully convinced there are enough muffins to go around.
Take for instance, one Jameson P. Moffet, the artless fat-fingered pig-nut my dear brother in arms Zack Paddington and I are expected to greet with poise and respect each day of the modern (if this is an apt word to describe the twinkling teen years of the twenty-first century) work-week. If I did not want so badly to distance myself from him, I might compare Mr. Moffet to that skank, Sir Francis Bacon, of who I am not in anyway affiliated and am most definitely not.
Jameson P. Moffet, how so do I loathe thee, red headed and rotund workplace colleague! There are many reasons to despise Scotland, but you could stand firm as the only one if needed in a pinch.
 |
| The only good thing that has come from Scotland |
Jameson P. Moffet is a fellow publicist here at ppPress. Well, should I say a Junior Publicist? He was hired shortly after our surprise smash hit title, Cats And The Things They Do hit the book stands, in order to handle the overflow of press inquiries. He is useless, of course, and I must handle these inquiries myself more often than not because he is quite engaged in the task of some Oriental art called Sudoku.
 |
| Have you got your copy? |
At the beginning of his tenure, Mr. Moffet's work station was ungraciously placed twixt myself and my dear, dear mentor, Mr. Zack Paddington, and now when I wish to stare at the cherubic face of my beloved associate, I must first look at the bespectacled lard-enlumped and stubbly visage of that wretched patchouli soaked Scotsman.
It is intolerable.
And most intolerable? You ask, Dear Readers? I heard you calling quietly out over the internet, so I will tell you now: Jameson P. Moffet is a muffin hoarder, a thief, an eater of things that do not belong to him. Evidenced by the crumbs of crumpets which spew forth like cinders from a coal stove on a cold day; they travel from the wretched dark maw of his mouth when he opens it to speak, and it is always unhinged and open to speak, uttering forth utterances of no consequence, ums and ahs and know it all tales and misinformations represented as fact at which Zack Paddington and I, your faithful writer, must smile and nod lest we offend the offensive.
 |
| representative cubicle |
Today, I knocked a frail old grandfather over to procure my delightful breakfast, and before I had a chance to eat the object of my shame, the Moffet-man swooped in and spirited it away.
A sad day indeed.
