Recently, I went to the local waffle joint with a craving for bacon, sausage, toast, and, apparently, diarrhea. I believe we get what we pay for in this world, and that’s all I wanted.

When my meal finally came to a sliding halt in front of me, I noticed a heaping Nazi death pile of buttery grits that jiggled when the plate landed like the stomach of the first kid out in dodge ball.

I waited tables in college, so I do empathize. I looked up at the “staff” to find what looked like a reality show audition for public access television.

Two cast members were teenage girls with matching pink hair and “cruise ship” braids with beads. They were gossiping about the alpha male waffle cook with a unibrow.

The only real adult in the place was a quietly angry dishwasher who looked like he was ready for the revolution. He had a “cut somebody” look on his face, so you would think these delinquents would treat him with a little decency, even if only out of fear. No. They dumped on this guy repeatedly.

I caught eyes with “Waffle Boy,” and he overconfidently strutted toward me.

“Whatcha need?” he said. That was the right question, but when his breath exploded onto my face, there was a whole new problem.

I remember thinking, “Sweet Georgia Brown! If I wanted boogers and hot, disgusting air in my face, I would go home and talk to my dog,” but I only had enough oxygen to whisper, “Toast.”

Just as my senses recovered, an obese fly did a Hudson River landing in my grits. “Waffle Boy” looked at the fly as if to ask, “What have I told you about this?”

He shot one of the pink-haired girls the stink eye and said, “He wanted toast, idiot.”

She started crying and waddled past me like she was late for the bathroom.

Chaos! I wanted to jump over the counter and lead. Instead, I leaned over the counter to say, “And Splenda.”

He came back rather quickly. I was impressed until he handed me a salad made of toast, soap suds, and nine wet Splenda packets.

Regret, party of one!