THE MASK acting very uncool and uncollected – not like himself at all – paces up and down his Victorian living room. Today THE MESSMAKER is bringing her famous BREAD PUDDING.
She only makes “The Pudding” for the folks she extremely loves and refusing to eat it is certainly out of the question.
THE MASK walks into his blue bedroom; blue sheets, blue walls, blue floor, blue ceiling, blue mirror, and one single portrait of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart which hangs on the wall.  THE MASK opens his closet hoping to find the right overcoat that may enable him to hide the BREAD PUDDING.
BREAD.
The only food he’d never been able to see, chew, taste, swallow, kiss or take in communion.
He had BREAD-anger. He was angry at BREAD as worms are angry at birds, as jealous lovers are angry at each other. Never in his many lifetimes had THE MASK been able to digest it. He can drink eighty-five Manhattans and feel perfectly fine but yeast? Yeast was his stomach’s biggest enemy.
Today THE MASK had to deal with BREAD PUDDING…and it contained raisins. Baked fruit was a whole other assortment of problems.
“How can I possibly tell THE MESSMAKER that I can’t eat her PUDDING? She’ll make me; I know she will make me! Then she will accuse me of having a BREAD complex, and later she will make me recite fifteen “Oh Father’s” on my knees..and possibly shirtless!”
THE MASK falls into bed. He drowns his face into the  goose down pillows and slowly cries his eyeliner away.
Nothing made THE MASK cry like BREAD did.