The Waffle House is a cultural icon whose mission statement is trifold: firstly, to serve fresh food in a friendly and welcoming environment; secondly, to preserve the uniquely Southern “American Diner” quality of an era bygone; finally, to never close their doors until floodwaters spoil the coffee, a yawning fissure steals away the final strips of greasy bacon, or a tornado whips away the last drops of waffle batter from the gridiron. The Waffle House is a truly unique American phenomenon. And that humble diner establishment is all that stands against the invariant toasters. This story was written after some friends and I went to the Waffle House at midnight. I drank half a pot of black coffee and ordered a large hashbrowns with diced tomatoes and jalapenos. We were all discussing geometric invariance, time travel, and Frigidaire toasters. At the Waffle House, anything can happen, so when I was dared to write a story about our weird conversation I naturally took them up on the offer. The result: easily the weirdest thing I've ever written, but I can't really say that it's badly done. This story is dedicated to the Waffle House, my first and only true love. May her doors never close and her menu endure until the inevitable heat death of all carbon-based life forms. I'll be back for more hot coffee and greasy hash browns, later.