NOTsecguy @notsecguy - Twitter Profile

1 day ago

The Chicken and Waffle Emergency Meeting I ordered chicken and waffles because the name sounded like two separate meals having an argument. Then the plate arrived. Fried chicken. On a waffle. With syrup. I stared at it. The chicken looked confident. The waffle looked trapped. The syrup looked like it had caused problems before. I asked the waitress, “Is this breakfast?” She said, “Depends how strong you are.” This was not an answer. This was a threat. I looked at the plate again. Chicken belongs with lunch. Waffles belong with morning. Syrup belongs with pancakes. America put all three together and expected me to act like the table was not legally confused. I picked up the syrup. My hand stopped. Pouring syrup on waffle: Normal. Pouring syrup on chicken: A crime in several emotional jurisdictions. The man at the next table saw me freeze. He said, “Bro, drown it.” Drown it. America does not season food. America declares floods. So I poured. The syrup landed on the waffle. Safe. Then it crossed into chicken territory. No one screamed. No police came. The chicken simply sat there, accepting the syrup like it had been waiting for corruption. I cut one bite. Chicken. Waffle. Syrup. My brain immediately called an emergency meeting. Sweet was yelling. Salt was confused. Crunch demanded legal counsel. Breakfast refused to sit next to Dinner. Lunch said, “Why am I even here?” Then my mouth raised its hand and said, “Shut up. This works.” That was the worst part. It worked. The waffle was soft. The chicken was crispy. The syrup was lying to both of them, but in a helpful way. By the third bite, I was no longer eating. I was watching enemies become roommates. By the fifth bite, I understood the American system. Do not solve conflict. Put it on a plate. Add syrup. Charge $14.99. The waitress came back. “How is it?” I wanted to say, “My government has collapsed.” Instead, I said, “It is peaceful now.” She nodded like this happens often. Chicken and waffles is not a meal. It is breakfast and violence sharing custody of syrup. I finished the plate with shame, respect, and minor maple damage. NyanChuu will no longer fear impossible alliances. If America puts ribs on pancakes and calls it a morning special, I will not ask questions. I will simply request extra napkins and prepare for diplomacy.

tanpukunokami's tweet photo. The Chicken and Waffle Emergency Meeting

I ordered chicken and waffles because the name sounded like two separate meals having an argument.

Then the plate arrived.

Fried chicken.

On a waffle.

With syrup.

I stared at it.

The chicken looked confident.

The waffle looked trapped.

The syrup looked like it had caused problems before.

I asked the waitress,

“Is this breakfast?”

She said,

“Depends how strong you are.”

This was not an answer.

This was a threat.

I looked at the plate again.

Chicken belongs with lunch.

Waffles belong with morning.

Syrup belongs with pancakes.

America put all three together and expected me to act like the table was not legally confused.

I picked up the syrup.

My hand stopped.

Pouring syrup on waffle:
Normal.
Pouring syrup on chicken:
A crime in several emotional jurisdictions.

The man at the next table saw me freeze.
He said,

“Bro, drown it.”

Drown it.

America does not season food.

America declares floods.

So I poured.

The syrup landed on the waffle.

Safe.

Then it crossed into chicken territory.

No one screamed.

No police came.

The chicken simply sat there, accepting the syrup like it had been waiting for corruption.

I cut one bite.

Chicken.

Waffle.

Syrup.

My brain immediately called an emergency meeting.

Sweet was yelling.

Salt was confused.

Crunch demanded legal counsel.

Breakfast refused to sit next to Dinner.

Lunch said, “Why am I even here?”

Then my mouth raised its hand and said,

“Shut up. This works.”

That was the worst part.

It worked.

The waffle was soft.

The chicken was crispy.

The syrup was lying to both of them, but in a helpful way.

By the third bite, I was no longer eating.

I was watching enemies become roommates.

By the fifth bite, I understood the American system.

Do not solve conflict.

Put it on a plate.

Add syrup.

Charge $14.99.

The waitress came back.

“How is it?”

I wanted to say, “My government has collapsed.”

Instead, I said,

“It is peaceful now.”

She nodded like this happens often.

Chicken and waffles is not a meal.

It is breakfast and violence sharing custody of syrup.

I finished the plate with shame, respect, and minor maple damage.

NyanChuu will no longer fear impossible alliances.

If America puts ribs on pancakes and calls it a morning special, I will not ask questions.

I will simply request extra napkins and prepare for diplomacy.

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NOTsecguy

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