Image Description: Two stick figures drawn onto a whiteboard, the one on the right slightly cropped out. Both are labelled with arrows, the one on the left titled “me” and the one on the right titled “Muffin Man”

 

By Faisal Hamza

 

I still remember the day I met the Muffin Man. I was watching a re-run of Martha & Snoop’s Potluck Dinner Party, on cable. He offered me a blueberry muffin. It’s not my favourite, so I said no, but then he said, “Hello, I am the Muffin Man.” So I had the muffin.

 

I was vacuuming the house the other day and I was very hungry as I was fasting. Usually, I avoided vacuuming my bedroom as my Dyson doesn’t agree with the carpet. But I was feeling cavalier. As I vacuumed under the bed, my tummy rumbled, and then the Muffin Man offered me a pomegranate muffin. No thanks Muffin Man, God’s watching.

 

The laundry person called the other day informing me that if I didn’t pick up my pants soon, they’d throw them out. “We can’t store them here for more than a month and you haven’t come back in seven!” I wondered why they waited seven months and not six. Six is a nicer number, I think, and it’s also the number of muffins the Muffin Man has given me. I asked them to throw the pants away. He knows me by those pants.

 

I was watching the classic movie Shrek the other day with my 4 year old. She goes by “E.” E wants to be in the pictures someday. I was just beginning to enjoy the film, when suddenly, to my horror, I witnessed a prince torture an innocent man of gingerbread.

 

“Do you know the muffin man!?”

 

Oh my goodness. I called the muffin man. “Why are you infiltrating my kids visual animated entertainment?!” He offered me a banana muffin. One of his more traditional offerings. I said no, of course. You can’t have a muffin in a movie theatre.

 

Faisal Hamza is a self-described ‘bad bitch’