Shog: "Do you ever feel awash in ignorance because of all you don't know? You know, like you're just floating on top of an ocean of information in which you'll never swim? . . . I mean, just what are those holes in waffles called?"
I: "They're dimples. They might have a more technical name, but they're still dimples. . . . Okay, Google, what are the holes in waffles called?"
Google: [Sends us to the language-related Stack Exchange, where we learn that, among Belgian waffle makers, Belgian waffles being, apparently, "the best kind of waffles," waffle holes/dimples are referred to as "pockets."]
I: "There we are, 'adry' in knowledge, and no, I'm not going to make waffles."
Shog: [Pouts.]
I: "I never feel dismayed by all the knowledge I don't know. I accept that I can't know everything, and that upon Cthulhu's eventual rise from R'lyeh, I'll simply have to escape through an extra-astral portal and make a new life for myself in the ruins of his world with the other refugees. . . . You'll always be welcome after your fight against the Old Ones with cold iron is done—unless you've become an actual shoggoth, that is. In that case, we'd have to run tests on you, first."
Shog: "So, if I were a Cylon, you'd kill me outright, but if I became a shambling horror, you'd run tests on me?"
I: "Biddable shambling horrors have their uses."
I then tucked Shog back into bed and fed the fuzzies before trying to get back to sleep, myself, while considering how very much I wouldn't want to be eaten first in the event of Cthulhu's awakening.
