Euthanizing Mrs. Butterworth.

Jack won't eat anything except toaster waffles.

He has speech delays and can't verbally ask me, so when he wants one, he brings me the bottle of Mrs. Butterworth syrup. He's hoisted that smug plastic hussy into my lap no less than five times, today. What's even worse is that I have to pack him a lunch for preschool, starting tomorrow.

How do I pack a frozen waffle and syrup in a brown paper bag? What will his teachers think if I attempt to make a waffle-and-syrup sandwich? How will they grapple with the apocalyptic hellfire that will rain down if his lunch bag is opened, revealing some abhorrence like a peanut butter sandwich?

On one occasion, I hid Jack's fructose-bellied mistress, in the hopes that he would forget about her and stop demanding waffles constantly. He was so bereaved by her absence that he became borderline manic, and started bringing me random items like hot sauce and selzer from the fridge, seemingly hoping that any bottle vaguely resembling the feminine form would contain syrup.

She might look unassuming and harmless, but Mrs. Butterworth hides a seedy, treacherous secret beneath that plumed plastic skirt. She's as addictive as heroin, with face-sticking properties comparable to cyanoacrylate. She's also non-recyclable in many areas. I think she's trying to populate the world with Mrs. Butterworth bottles. I don't know about you, but that's not the kind of world I want to live in. I think I'm gonna burn Butterworth.