The sadist ad wizards that have addicted the entire global populous to our cell phones and social media soul poison have done it again, gang.
You probably heard digital rumblings/outrage about the International House of Pancakes changing their name from IHOP to IHOB.
Dear Internet, we abbreciate your batience. Now let’s see who guessed right. B-hold!!!!! #IHOb pic.twitter.com/Fh3SkZ7s3Y— IHOb (@IHOb) June 11, 2018
Your favorite carb lard fat casual chain is pivoting from fatcakes to fatburgers. For now. Or whatever.
I’ve got an IHOP story.
The year was 2005. College Station, America. It was the middle of one of my senior years.
I went to a Robert Earl Keen show at Hurricane Harry’s. Suffice it to say, I got crippled drunk out of my mind. I’m talking that sloppy ass college blackout for $20 gassing 32 oz. chuggers and rail shots of whiskey distilled in gas station toilets. It was a big time.
To the surprise of exactly no one, I got separated from all my friends and my cell phone died. Robert Earl Keen had put on a helluva show and I was coming to terms with my little dilemma. I had no way of reaching anyone I knew because I don’t know anyone’s phone number - family included. It was 2 AM and ol’ Gards was going to have to walk home. Now, I’m no hero - this wasn’t some 100 mile pilgrimage through the desert, but it WAS kind of far for a doughy blacked out unit like myself in cowboy boots.
This is a 2.5 mile walk and I’ll be damned if that didn’t feel like an Ironman during the throes of that hallmark moment of my existence.
I quickly realized that before I set forth on this odyssey I would need proper sustenance and lo and fuckin’ behold right next to Harry’s is an IHOB.
I only order breakfast in these types of joints because 1. I love breakfast and 2. I feel like it’s the only thing the methed out line cooks can be trusted with.
Naturally, I ordered the three egg Denver omelet with a side of pancakes doused in regret and shame.
Please note that I’m solo in a booth just mumbling to myself and barely able to form a sentence. I think I just pointed to one of the bright pictures in the menu that looks nothing like the food that is actually prepared.
A few minutes passed and the waitress brought me out my meal. My dummied drunk ass finished 95% of it before the waitress came over to apologize for bringing me the wrong food. See, she had brought me the chicken fried steak platter instead of the diarrhea regret omelette. But I was too cranked to notice and had gorged myself anyway.
No matter, she said, I’ll bring you your original order too.
And I ate all of that too.
So there I was. A grifter on the the road of life. 2300 calories fatter and ready to trek home.
I took the route through campus outlined above, which was lovely from what I recall, until I tripped, landed terribly on my shoulder and started vomiting uncontrollably.
I slept on a campus park bench that night and finished my walk home at 6:30 AM.
“ALL AGGIES ARE THE CLASSIEST CLASSERS THAT EVER CLASSED” - all opposing fans that visit Kyle Field
Thank you, IHOB.
Most of you barn animals have just filthy, reprehensible lifestyles. Especially if you’re a single male between the ages of 18-30.
Share in the ‘mments your most grotesque food feats.
I’m talking about like the time I ordered late night Dominoes, passed out, missed the delivery dude, but he was heroic enough to just leave the ‘za on my doorstep. And I ate it for breakfast.
How many days straight have you eaten Whataburger?
What’s the most McGuyver meal you’ve made out of a barren fridge?
Let’s crack wise below. Gig ‘em.