Sunday morning.
Most folks are getting ready for church, or having breakfast in bed, or spending quality time with their families.
My friends and I are waking up in each other’s beds, hungover, grasping for water and food.
Enter a Sunday morning in May, when after a blowout pre-Graduation party, two friends and I found ourselves in this situation.
beautiful monster
We congregated (much like holier folks, except much crabbier than holier folks) and decided on where to obtain nutrition.
In desperate search of sustenance, the chubby one in the group croaked:
IHOP. I WANT PANCAKES.
Barely able to see straight, I complied, somehow driving the three of us to the new IHOP in Santa Monica.
Upon arrival, the only smell stronger than that of delicious pancakes was that of formaldehyde. Yes, some of our society’s most elderly members had populated the restaurant as they are wont to do.
But these weren’t your garden-variety geezers. These were the advanced-level aged, each of which required handicapped assistance and a caretaker. It was as if we had wandered into the Last Chance Lodge.
no vacanc–
what’s that you say? mrs. pendleton just expired?
sure, we have a room available!
Navigating the endless sea of walkers, wheelchairs, and other contraptions, we made our way to a table that gave us a panoramic view of the pitiful scene. We sat down cautiously without regard for placement at the table, knowing we’d probably have to jump up to save some old coot bowling over on their way to the washroom.
Enormous menus larger than the tablets of Moses were thrust in front of us, as well as exultations to join the IHOP mailing list by the all-too-cheery host. The chubby friend complied immediately, while I looked at my other friend as we both scoffed with mutual incredulity.
The IHOP mailing list? That’s pretty much the saddest thing I’ve ever heard of.
The chubby one pouted.
Feeling guilty, we both complied to make him not feel so alone in wanting to receive IHOP coupons via the electronic mail the kids use these days.
Since then, I’ve received about 12 emails from IHOP begging me to return and try whatever bizarre pancake combinations they’ve pulled out of their butts this time.
Usually I ignore their emails and wipe them out with the rest of the spam and penis enlargement advertisements (DEFINITELY not required).
But this morning I opened one and read it over on the crappier (litterbox lined with the New York Times).
What’s tragic is some poor soul out there will get an IHOP gift card for Christmas. It’s like a pre-intervention last-ditch cry for help by that person’s family: we’ll enable you this one last time, but for God’s sake, put down the damn fork.
What’s even more tragic is receiving IHOP emails and being too lazy to take your name off the list.
great for alienating friends AND family