Inertia is an object’s resistance to a change in its state of motion or rest. In other words: Not moving? Not going to. Not until said object is acted upon by an external force.
Or, in my case, I’m not getting out of bed until I smell breakfast.
Unfortunately, unless I slept through a rapid evolution in batter consciousness, I don’t imagine aspiring pancakes have lifted themselves up by their baking powder bootstraps and valiantly thrown themselves onto a hot griddle in martyrdom to my growling belly.
Which leads me to only one conclusion: I must make or, god forbid, forage for said pancakes.
“The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.” – The poet William Blake, blabbering on about pancakes, as usual
Oooh, but inertia is a damnable foe! It overwhelms me from every angle. Instead, I believe I will toss and turn in bed, consumed by dreams of a full-service pancake delivery business existing near my home.
While necessity may be the mother of invention, laziness is the doting father of pipe dreams.
By full-service, I mean they wouldn’t simply deliver pancakes to my front door. Heavens no, this would be delivery to my room, my bed, my mouth. The buttering, the application of syrup – these things would be covered. And, unless I’m going for that breakfast-y musk that the makes the ladies swoon in waves, a thorough post-meal wet-nap scrub of the ol’ face whiskers would also be included.
Before I forget, there would certainly be an understanding, even an expectation, of the customer’s/my near-nudity. Pants are a horrible burden, (See: The Tyranny of Breeches, my controversial treatise on these cotton and denim shackles) the very mention of which is strictly verboten. After the meal, I’ll draw the dignity line at burping me like a baby. A dotted line.
Imagine! There could be a van with heating bins to keep the food warm, and in case a craving for eggs struck unannounced, it could contain a griddle in order to make them on the spot.
Don’t even get me started on the syrup caddies. Mostly because I don’t even know what I mean by that, other than large, wheeled jugs of every imaginable syrup flavor: maple, bacon-flavored maple, blueberry, bacon-flavored blueberry, traditional baconberry, boysenberry, bourbonberry, etc., and that’s just the B’s. An entire alphabet of syrups could deliver a lexicon of flavors.
If you added Bloody Mary’s and carafes of mimosas to the menu, I’m thinking this pipe dream becomes an unstoppable commercial juggernaut.
The only foreseeable and pretty obvious downside would be to increase inertness. After a pancake pampering, a buffet of syrups, a scrambled egg side, and a Bloody Mary chaser, the human body would be a breakfast-stuffed object stubbornly resisting a change in its state of immobility.
Regardless, I’m ready for such a service, and I eagerly anticipate the free market’s response to this consumer’s need. Entrepreneurs, please make it happen for us inert, breakfast-loving dreamers .