The Moustachioed Gent Versus The Machines That Help Us Make Breakfast

as he tried to reach sleep, a moustachioed gent listened to the sounds of his stomach in the blinding darkness bowels of night.  like fireworks, just when he thought he had heard the last, another followed.  the reorganisation of his insides seemed to carry on until he finally stooped to snowblind dreams.

“brekkfus,” he growled as war pigs rode from his black sabbath alarm clock the next gloomily apocalyptic morning.  he padded downstairs in his dressing gown and through the cultured clutter of his kitchenette to the backyard.  it was high tide on his doom-laden moustache, the waxing moon bright in the sky holding sway as the hair surged up his face in waves.

his main thought of this embryonic day (of death) was that machines were not suitable for making breakfast.  “frrute,” he said to no one in particular.  in the yard stood one potted apple tree, heavily pregnant with cider ingredients.  he pulled an apple and it came off the tree with a popping sound as if he were in a children’s computer game.

he forced the apple through his lips whole and it galumphed down his gullet until it was so far inside the moustachioed gent that there was no light and it was difficult to find its way.  the moustachioed gent lay on the ground to facilitate the apples journey because now that the apple had reached the entrance to his reorganised stomach it was faced with the task of finding its way inside.

on his back he moved from side to side, the apple rolling one way then another as he tried to guide it through his insides as if they were one of those small ball-bearing puzzles in which you have to guide the ball to the centre of the maze.  it took him quite  a while and by the time he had the apple safely in he was quite exhausted.  “hrrru,” he exclaimed.

with breakfast completed, now it was time for the moustachioed gent to go inside and start his day.  he walked across the yard to the backdoor and the kitchenette in which he so often ate breakfast, anticipating a day of balmy peace.  he could already feel his syllables softening.

BUT, there had congregated a braying mob who seemed eager to pull him apart and rip the apple – which had already digested into his soul and made him feel much better about himself, the world and breakfasts – from the insides of his moustachioed form.  “whuu?” was his reaction.

[some more details of the mysterious mob in the kitchen.  it consisted:  a sandwich toaster holding a fork in each hand and jumping up and down, a kettle spitting boiling fury, a grill pan with a very serious expression on his face, a toast rack wielding a bread knife with little coordination and finally an aga which stomped forcefully through the crowd]

the moral of this particular morning hit the gent as his moustache recoiled in terror, moon or no moon.  he had ignored his loyal friends to indulge in a healthier breakfast and now he was going to, it seemed, pay the price.  he was well aware of the history of the succession of moustachioed gents who had met with sticky ends and so it was with little hope that he tried to fight the kitchen appliances as they seized him and began to hit him really quite hard.

the tragic conclusion of this moustachioed gent, an innocent like so many others, seemed inevitable.  still, the interesting thing was this:  no moustachioed gent had ever faced their mortal peril so soon after having such a wholesome experience with an apple.  students of this kind of thing may have been interested in rewinding time and seen what the moustachioed gent could have done with this kind of knowledge – would he have fought harder and saved his bacon (soon to become a breakfast feast for some hungry kitchenware)?

unfortunately he was bundled into the aga and later eaten as several sandwiches so we will never know.

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