As everybody knows, any reasonable expectation of a breakfast should include at least two fried eggs draped over buttered toast, three plump sausages, several strands of streaky bacon, some sort of tomato presentation and a puddle of baked beans. Adventurous gourmands often substitute a pair of kippered herrings for the sausages, possibly adding the odd hexagon of pineapple if morning finds them in a tropical mood. Blood pudding, greasy mushrooms, hash brown rubble and a demolished onion are also viable supplements and alternatives in any acceptable breakfast: a cavalcade of proteins and vitamins to begin our long day's journey into dinner.
Both Napoleon and Alexander regularly awoke to the mouthwatering aromas of such hearty feasts cooking upon their encampment stoves at reveille. In antiquity, the mathematician Archimedes discovered his famous principle, that a floating object displaces its own weight of fluid, only after preparing an enormous breakfast of seven feta cheese omelets, twenty-four slices of Phoenician bacon and nine pancakes soaked with his own homemade maple syrup (which is the reason why he was taking a bath in the first place). Time after time, from Paleolithic griddlers daubed on Lascaux cave walls to footage of Neil Armstrong slathering cream cheese on his bagel in zero gravity, the frying pan of history provides sizzling proof that breakfast is without doubt the most important meal of the day, just as Franz Kafka claims in his novel Metamorphosis.
Consequently, the heart sinks and the stomach groans upon learning that cardiological orders have limited my breakfast to a mere dollop of non-fat yogurt strewn with a few anemic berries. There is little hope of me conquering my bowel movements, never mind the world, after starting the day with a mouthful of such pitiful gruel. Little Miss Muffet enjoyed heartier breakfasts than mine. Even her intrusive spider wouldn't bother to sit down beside me if I were sat on a tuffet, wearily dragging my spoon around a small bowl of boiled oatmeal in search of that last shriveled raisin. There is absolutely zero incentive to arise from one's slumbers when only tasteless brown sludge and senile prunes await, cowering in a gloomy breakfast nook, ashamed to show themselves to the sun. The early bird is completely humiliated by the worm's swift turn of pace in such conditions.
My breakfast is not the fabled, yawn-conquering Breakfast of Champions; mine is the Breakfast of Runners Up; the uninspiring and unappetizing Breakfast of Bad Luck But Thanks For Playing. My breakfast does not snap, crackle and pop while bathed in morning's golden light. It coughs, splutters and then scratches its pale, mushy backside and staggers off to the bathroom, wherein it squats on a cold lavatory seat to dwell upon its weaknesses and inadequacies. Perhaps we'd all be better off if my breakfast just flushed itself down the toilet?
Thank God, then, for the coffee bean; that brown diamond of the dawn. Roasted, ground and then percolated, coffee provides the necessary energy that breakfast foods fail to supply. Were it not for this munificent bean's rich nectar I doubt I could gird my brain to write these words. Blogs do not write themselves, you know, even though, admittedly, that may sometimes seem to be the case.