Recently, a special ladyfriend joined me for a night of her getting really drunk and passing out before any bases were reached.

Even though there was a lack of any sexual awesomeness, I still decided to go through with my promise of cooking breakfast in the morning—or afternoon. I slept shittily because of her intoxicated whining, and also I thought she was going to ruin my brand-new queen bed with her pee, puke, or poop.

Hello Kitty breakfast and brunch set - plates and silverwareUsually I eat a nice bowl (ha, I typed "bowel" first) of cereal. But since I want to show my classiness, I needed to construct a menu straight off a fancy-assed brunch menu: an omelet, sausage, pancakes, fresh fruit, and grilled cheese would all be served at Casa de KC.

Upon awaking at the crack of 12:35pm, I discovered that no bodily fluids had destroyed my precious sleeping area, except for a few of her drunk tears. I also noticed that the last time I hit the supermarket, I picked up some light margarine, cheese, and a new screwdriver—some things I needed, some things I didn't. What can I say? I'm useless without a shopping list.

So there was cheese, no bread. Butter, but no eggs. Fruit, but no plates. You see, I just moved, and I'm also a longtime bachelor. I had two plates, but I broke half of them. The last time I relocated, I said, "Fuck plates" and just ate out of my one pot or my own skillet. But since I wanted some after-breakfast shower nookie, I needed to bring some "A Game."

While she slept more, I walked to the grocery store with a short list. I wanted to buy the cheapest plates, but finding something without "Hello Kitty" for under $5 was tough. So I grabbed some white ones that looked like they'd hold food—and not break the bank or too easily on the floor. I also bought eggs, mushrooms for the omelet, expensive-looking sausage, bread, and a few other ingredients.

This girl also requested tea, and since the only tea I owned I bought to flush out all the narcotics from my system for my job's drug test, I thought a purchase of new tea bags was in order. I don't know anything about tea, except that I don't really like it and this girl wanted decaffeinated stuff, so I bought peppermint because I read in Maxim magazine a few years ago that peppermint tea makes you fart less, which I could use when a girl spends all her time with me and my bathroom is far from soundproof.

As most crappy apartments go, I only have one burner, so I started the tea. I served her in the only coffee mug I own, since I gave my totally awesome Korean Tony the Tiger mugs to my brother for his birthday. I don't know how hot the water is supposed to be, how long bags are supposed to steep, or any of that shit, so I put some boiling water in the mug and plopped a tea bag in there and gave it to her as she waited.

She sipped her tea as I slaved away chopping mushrooms and an apple. I de-yolked the eggs for a sort-of-healthy omelet. I cooked the eggs and sausage together, then my KC's World-Famous Grilled Cheese.

Seriously, my grilled cheese removed more knickers than my lusciously long eyelashes or perfectly sculpted deltoid muscles. My other pièce de résistance were some homemade pancakes. Actually, they come out of a pouch and you just add water, but fuck it, what she doesn't know wouldn't kill her. I bought the pancake mix the last time a female guest would be entertained with one of my world-famous (nay, galaxy-famous) breakfasts—which, sadly to say, was a really long effing time ago.

As I poured the contents out into my cereal bowl, er, mixing bowl, I thought, "I don't remember sesame seeds being in here." So I grabbed my magnifying glass and looked closer. Why do I have a magnifying glass and no dinner plates? Because I'm a dude and not a particularly smart or refined one. And who knows when I'll need to use a Sherlock Holmes tool to solve a spooky Scooby Doo mystery?

What I saw in my lens may have horrified some people, but I figured, "Well, I haven't been laid yet and she'll never know. If she asks, I'll say, ‘They're whole grain pancakes.'" But, in reality, they were dead fruit flies. You see, these winged motherfuckers infested my last apartment when I bought some spoiled apples. As my old man used to and still says, "Starving people do it all the time. Extra protein." He's a dick, and I'm his son, so it's okay.

I spatula-ed my foodstuffs onto my brand-new plates. My food usually tastes fairly good, but I still haven't mastered the art of presentation. I heard you eat with your eyes as much as you eat with your mouth, but I just eat anything I see, so again I said, "Fuck it. She's getting a free breakfast."

I gave her the KC's World-Famous Grilled Cheese that I didn't burn (because I'm a fucking gentleman) and waltzed into my sleeping quarters (which happen to be five steps from my cooking quarters). I even gave her my only fork and knife. Yes, I just have one of each, but I have four spoons and a lot of metal chopsticks. I told you, I'm not that dignified. When she asked why I ate everything with a spoon, I replied, "I just like breakfast with a spoon."

Although there were speed bumps, breakfast was served (in bed, as promised) and she gobbled everything—bugs and all. Something must have worked, because pretty soon she gained the energy to rise out of bed, brush her teeth, then bang me in the shower, and my bed. Then a nap. Then more banging.

Maybe I should check out Wikipedia to see if fruit flies are the real Spanish Fly.