The foods on my plate are always completely segragated, so the chances of a mini sausage – which there’s ever only one of – touching syrup is so low for me, that it has yet to happen. So. Fade in. My apartment. My wife cooks some mini sausages. “They don’t taste so great,” she says. “I don’t want them.” “I don’t want them either,” I reply in a way that accentuates my burdening handsomeness. “I don’t like mini sausages.” “Try dipping them in syrup,” she suggests, also in a way that accentuates my burdening handsomeness. And then I did and I ATE THEM ALL.
Fade to black.