The Muffin Man

by James C. McNeill
copyright © 1998

I'd like to introduce you to Brittney. She's two and a half years old, twenty seven pounds of animated high explosive. She's no bigger than a nickel beer, and not much smarter than the average nuclear physicist is at age two.

So we're over to the house visiting and Brittney comes up to me and says, "Hi, I'm the muffin man."

"Hi there, muffin man. What's that you have?"

"These are muffins, Grandpa. They are very, very hot, but not hot enough to burn you."

"OK, I'll be careful."

I cannot see these muffins, you understand. I can't see the tray that she's carrying them on, either. Even so, I cautiously accept one on an invisible plate and dig in like I have never tasted anything so delicious.

"Mmmmmm."

I am devouring the first one when the phone rings and my daughter bounds up the stairs to answer it. "Hey," Brittney yells after her, "Get your butt down here and eat these muffins before they get cold."

After I pick myself up off the floor, I call to her mother, "How does it feel to hear yourself talking?"

"Shut up, Dad. I'm on the phone."

I've said it many times. I have no money, but I'm a very rich man.

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