My Mom once told me to stop making breakfast puns.
She warned me that if I did I’d be toast; she said she just pancake it anymore. How waffle, right? I was in a real jam, so I learned to be syrup-titious about it. At least Dad, a cereal punster himself, kept egging me on. He was such a ham. Whoever sausage a thing?
When Mom realized how crestfallen I was she apologized. To which I said, “Omelet it slide this time.”
I can’t begin to eggsplain how hurt I was by her rejection of my puns. It was eggstraordinarily painful. It certainly didn’t go over easy. But Mom and I eventually hashed it out. Ultimately the yolk was on her though. I figured out that there were a brunch more meals to make puns about.
It was only years later when I discovered that she was laughtose intolerant. That’s when I realized I shouldn’t have Benedict about it.
I guess I should stop now. Don’t want to milk this too long.
Happy Hollandaise, everyone!
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