International House of Pleasure

Holy crappage, do I ever love me some IHOP, and when I say "love", I mean I could bathe in the sweet euphoric juices of the debonair Rooty Tooty Fresh 'N Fruity. I could sleep each and every night in Chocolate Chip Pancake batter while dreaming about my homie Vive la French Toast skipping over clouds and under rainbows while holding hands with his suave older friend, International Passport.

You know what I hate? Those people who are all, "IHOP is so sick. I can't believe you lick your table when you get there in case the people before you left any bacon greasy maple syrup remnants behind." Oh yeah? Well, up yours, holier than thou jerkrags. I like The Hop, and I'm not afraid who knows it. Every time I ask my husband if we can go eat at my pancake Xanadu, he goes, "IHOP? IHOP Not!" Clever. Each time he says it, I am inches closer to revealing the bombshell that our baby is probably not his.

Anyway, in perusing our favorite concubine, the Internet, I have found some fineass IHOP waitresses to whom I would like to ask a few questions. It is my strongest desire that fate will allow these waitresses to find this blog is eggsalady in order to respond to my burning inquiries.

Mmmkay. Here goes.

This is Letty Hernandez from Burbank, California. First of all, Letty: Girl, why you so fly? And that leads me to my next question. I see you're serving up my boo, the Rooty. Letty, what up with the damn parsley? This isn't the Ramada Inn lounge. This isn't the Shoney's by the airport. Do people ever touch the parsley? Who is touching the parsley? I've got an idea for you to take to management: lose the damn parsley. According to the Summary of Fresh Market Parsley Crop Enterprise Budget and Breakeven Costs Based on Average Grower Yields of 900 Bushels per Acre, 1986, the total production cost per acre of parsley, including machinery, labor, irrigation, seed, ferilizer, labor, containers, rubber bands, ice, et cetera costs $4,921.00. By my calculations, parsley totally blows. Oh, and I guess while I have you here, a couple other things: are the glasses atop your coiffed updo utilitarian, or just an accessory, and, do you ever use the whipped cream during your off hours?

Meet the spokesmodels of the North Orlando International House (the NOIHOP). Unfortunately, we do not have the luxury of knowing the names of these mysteriously lovely vixens o' the flapjack. I like to think of this pair as the Tag Team Champions of the Breakfast Sampler - The World Renowned Metaphorical Duo of the Smokehouse Combo, if you will. Um, Toothie Grin: Who ordered the burger and rings? You must've really pounded the hard sell to that sucker. What, do you get a little boisenberrific commision bump if you hock goods from the nonbreakfast portion of the menu? Surely you must, as I cannot think of any breathing organism that would play breakfast menu insurgent and order from the other side. Wait. I can. It was 1999, and it was a dare: I ordered the International House of Pancakes Fried Shrimp Platter. Readers, this is one prognostication I beseech you to heed: do not make the same mistake that I made. Fried Shrimp and IHOP should not date. They should not even be friends with benefits. I can't help but notice that Non-Toothie-Grin seems to have a knowing, ever so slightly smug expression on her countenance. Am I right, Non-Toothie? You're laughing on the inside that some assmouse has been played yet again, soon to be ingesting the rings and burger of solitude and pain. Please tell me I'm wrong, though I know I'm so right.

I totally stole this picture from someone's flickr page. Their title? "Hot waitress", of course. I guess first and foremost, I want to ask Hot waitress if she is an angel in IHOP heaven. The way the light shines through her pendulous tendrils of golden hair immediately takes my brain to the divinely delectable aromas of sausage that I know drift through those locks. Hot waitress, the appearance of vehement concentration on your face is so intense I can practically hear you asking yourself why it looks as though you are standing in 1976. Hot waitress, if you told me that you were going to meet Jack Tripper after your shift for some late night sheboinging, I'd take your word for it. Hot waitress, do you press your shirt so crisp, or do you send it out to the cleaners? I can only hope that you took a spin in a time machine, thus allowing you to read this post and subsequently answer my burning questions. I look forward to hearing from you.
Last but not least, these are my (fantasy) friends Fran Russell, pictured right, and her unnamed HOP companionista. Things look pretty friendly behind the scenes, eh? I guess, most importantly, if Fran could respond to my every query, I'd first ask exactly what it took to score the coveted IHOP embroidered black cardigan. I liken that coup in my head to winning the green jacket prize of that sexist golf romp, The Masters. But this is better. Look at her friend (I call her by her Indian name Inexplicably Wears Q-Tips in Hair), basking in the warmth that is Frannie the Ultimate Donner of the Cardigan. Hey, Ladies: I can't help but notice that my fresh squeezed orange juice may not be quite as fresh squeezed as I had once believed. I'm cool. But, not to tell you how to do your jobs, but at my house juice works really well when we keep it in the fridge. Just a proposition.

Anyway, I can only hope that our ladies will find us and provide us with the answers we so desire. Until I hear back, I'm definitely going all Hop on that ass this weekend. I'll leave you with yet another reason to visit (again, stolen - see here). There's a Horton Hears a Who celebration in the House, and you can order these Whocakes for a limited time. I'm gonna do it. I'll let you know how it plays out.

Get your pleasure on right here: humor-blogs.com. Go on. Click there, heathens!