Ajax's Fables: The Muffin That Would To Be A Man

A baker in Santa Clara, CA was just closing up for the night. He had let his staff leave early, always a kind employer, on this Friday evening. The bakery stayed open until 6 pm on Friday nights, trying to fold in as much business as possible from the homeward-bound townsfolk. Everything was clean, no flour anywhere. The baker set up the cleaned machinery for the next morning, then gave one final look around and locked the front door on his way out. It was a busy day, nearly everything baked that day was sold, which was typical. What wasn't typical was that one muffin remained in the show case. Just a simple sweet-dough muffin, nothing special, but a popular member of the cupped quick breads nonetheless. A simple muffin with dreams of something more. As it watched the people pass by on the street outside, the muffin sighed.
"What is the batter?" asked the mixing bowl, never one to pass by a pun, or a bun, it was a big bowl.
"I've wasted my life sitting in this display case." Replied the muffin.
"Your life!? Ha! You were baked less than 10 hours ago, I was there when you were mixed!"
"10 hours?! Oh, I'm getting so old, I'll be stale before long." Said the muffin, mournfully.
"Don't worry, you'll be freed in the morning, well, not freed, but $1.99'd."
"You don't understand. You are stainless steel, whatever that means, but you don't go stale. I don't know what I'm talking about, because I'm a muffin, but when I was first put in here this morning there were three muffins and a danish that told me what was what, and they said they heard that you don't have to worry like we do."
The wise mixing bowl remained motionless, for it was just a bowl; a talking bowl, yes, but it couldn't move on its own. It didn't have feet. It then responded, "Those pastries weren't full of fluff, it is true that I am different than you. I have been around longer than any scone, danish, donut or muffin. My wisdom surpasses that of the spoon or the oven mitt. I..."
"Then tell me one thing, please?" Interrupts the muffin.
"What?"
"How do I become the baker? Is it possible for me?"
"Oh little muffin. Of course it isn't, you can never be the baker." Chortled the bowl.
"Why not?"
"You are a muffin, and muffins can't be men." The bowl said with such disdain that the conversation stopped dead (Mostly because I have no idea where else to take this dialogue; a muffin and a bowl, come on! What was I thinking?).
Early the next morning the baker arrived and began baking various pastries and such. On one pass by the display case he noticed the solitary muffin.
"Don't you worry, little muffin, you'll be sold today. Man up." Offered the baker encouragingly. He's never been the same since he took that football to the head while feeding ducks in the park last spring.
The muffin lifted its chin, figuratively speaking, at those last words "Man up." Man up? it thought, so then it is possible! I should've known better than to trust a bowl.
Well, the muffin sat there cheerily wondering and waiting for something to help it in accomplishing its "manning up."
A knock on the door, 5 minutes before 7 am - opening time. The baker was prepared to get going for a busy Saturday, so he opened the door. In walked a stately gentleman. A tall blond Adonis, of sorts. Boasting of Finnish ancestry with every well articulated word, "You open then? I want a muffin or something. Just got off the night shift and I need something to get this taste out of my mouth."
"We are open, and I've got plenty of fresh muffins and scones for you, right this way," as he leads the man to the main display cabinet, "Where do you work?"
"Morgue."
"Ah...eh...intersting work I suppose?" Nervously the baker maintains the conversation.
"It's a pay check. Got anything with blueberries?"
"Yes," happy that the man didn't dwell on the conversation, "These muffins are fresh out of the oven and full of ripe blueberries, never frozen."
"Perfect, that must be what I smelled from the street. I'll take half a doz - well 'ello muffin!" The man sees the day-old sweet-dough muffin alone in its tray, "What's this muffin all alone?"
"Oh, that is a sweet-dough muffin, a popular type around here, but this little one is left over from yesterday, it's still good, but you are here so early, have these fresh ones."
But the man wasn't persuaded. He saw something in that muffin. Something he'd like to have inside of his stomach. Probably sugar, but maybe butter.
"I'll take that muffin, as well as half a dozen of those fresh blueberry deals."
The transaction was completed and the baker wished the man a fine morning. Once outside the man opened his parcel and removed the lone sweet-dough muffin. With two bites it was gone.
"Not bad." Said the man as he walked on down the street.
That night, after the baker closed up shop again, the mixing bowl told the tale of the muffin that wanted to be a man, and how it achieved its desire that very morning. The new muffins, unaware of the bowl's delusions believed every word, though they didn't know what they meant. But you know what they mean, they mean that if you want to live longer than one day, don't be a muffin.
The End.