Which Reminds Me

Ihop. There is a story there. It begins late, late at night, during a weekend spent at home on break. I had been out dumpster diving with two of my friends, and we had amassed quite a haul of bits and pieces. We are hungry, and Ihop is a triple threat at this point. (close, cheap, and tasty) We arrive, are seated, and order. (breakfast sampler!) I am immediately struck my the boysenberry syrup on the table. Back at school, my friend Mike and I had been spending quite a bit of time at out local Ihop, trying in vain to be recognized as regulars, only to realize that the wait staff was too irregular. But I digress. The point is, we fucking love boysenberry syrup. I decide, in my infinite wisdom, to acquire the small pitcher that is on our table at this establishment. Thus, our food is delivered, and after I pour what can only be described as a cruel amount of boysenberry onto my pancakes, I slip the container into my coat pocket and continue to eat. We finish, and after our plates are taken away but before the check is brought, I make to feel the container with my right hand, to reassure myself that it is there, and that it will not be exceptionally lumpy when I put on my coat and stand.

That was when things took a turn for the worst. My companions had not seen me put my hand into my pocket, but they did see it return from below the table, with the first three fingers slathered in Ihop's own boysenberry syrup. It was as though we were in a war movie, and I had been hit by a sniper firing delicious rounds. A look of horror flickers across my face, and just as I see the waitress return I shove my fingers into my mouth to avoid detection. I elicit only a strange look as she gave us our bill and left.

A few things to noted at this point:

1. My companions are laughing quite hard, which is not easing my anxiety.

2. There is a police officer just chillin' by the main entrance, chatting up the cashier.

3. My coat pocket feels like a goddamn pimple from being filled with boysenberry syrup.

4. The leak is all over the seat, as well as my pants.

Luckily, I was able to quickly compose myself, and was able to get my compatriots to stop their laughing and start scheming. We approach the cashier, and they carefully place themselves between my boysenpocket and the officer. His attention was entirely directed at the cashier, though, and they chat through our transaction, which I do not complain about, and we beat a hasty retreat. Outside I discover that half of the bottle has emptied itself into my coat pocket, which now reeks of divine ambrosia. Also, my pant leg is gone. Destroyed. Covered in boysenberry, so much that I need to position myself very carefully in the car we arrived in, since I was not to be allowed inside unless I was careful to not get any syup on the ride. The waitress must have pieced my fuck-up of a caper together, with the missing boysenberry pitcher, boysenberry stain and awkward customers.

I hope she thought it was hilarious.


I didn't.