Andrew sat at the kitchen table, staring at his bowl of GIMP. He picked up his spoon and stirred the stodgy grey substance. He lifted the spoon into the air and tilted it, listening to the Pap. Pap. Plop. as globules of the standard-issue breakfast cereal dropped like little wet bombs back into the bowl. Andrew wanted to do anything but eat it.
“Dad, do we have anything for breakfast that isn’t GIMP?” Andrew said.
Beside Andrew hovered a newspaper, behind which Andrew’s father grunted.
“Don’t be daft, Andy. You know we haven’t got anything else. And stop calling it GIMP.”
“But that’s what it is.”
“It’s GMP. Genetically Modified Porridge.”