“Come on Waffles, let’s go,” I said. We called her that constantly, after an infamous incident involving the negligent discharge of a waffle iron.

At that, Waffles petulantly stomped her foot. “Stop that!” she cried. “You know I don’t like it when you call me ‘Waffles!'”

“Well, I’m sorry about that,” I said. “But you have to admit it’s accurate. You’re square, rather shallow, and nobody wants you for breakfast when they have any other option. Oh, and you usually have to be toasted before you’re good for anything.”

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