So I walk into Waffle House. I sit at the bar. The server asks what I want. I say coffee. He brings me a coffee. Then he asks what I want to eat. I said I hadn’t decided. He says take your time. So I take my time. Then he comes back. I tell him I want an All-Star breakfast for $12.99. Eggs runny. Bacon burnt. He says yessir. So I drink my coffee. It’s black. Tastes good. I watch the staff. They’re happy. They’re friendly. 4 minutes and 28 seconds later. Food is in front of me. Bacon. Crispy as fuck. Eggs. Runny as snot. Waffle. Cooked to perfection.

I look upon the spread in front of me. It was everything that I had hoped for. The server stood over with a smile as wide as Kansas. So I look him in the eye and hold my fork in an almost threatening way. “What the fuck is this shit?” I ask him.

“Sir?”

“I said ‘what, the fuck, is, this shit?’”

“It’s what you ordered.”

I looked at his name tag. I turned around to glance at the sign outside. Then my eyes flow from one end of the diner to the other. “Forgive me, I thought this was a Waffle House,” I said.

“But it is,” the server pleaded.

I furiously shook my head. “No,” I told him. “At Waffle House, I come here for half assed and unsatisfactory service and food that’s greasy enough to cure next week’s hangover. That’s REAL America. If I wanted to be respected as a human being, I’d have gone to Denny’s.”

THE END