AFFLE HOUSE - Or Why I Realized A Little Piece Of Josh Had Died

(No, that's not a typo in the title. Keep reading, I'll explain.)

I had a FANTASTIC idea. I thought.

One recent hot, steamy June morning, I dreaded heading to the office because I could foresee some really crappy things happening at work that day. So I had a great idea for a way to positively tackle the day's challenges: "I know, I'll get up at 6:30am and go grab a big, hearty breakfast! That's all I'll need to make it through the day!" So far so good, but whoa whoa whoa, I wasn't done: "I'll just go to that Denny's across the freeway from my office!"

Therein lies the problem. Denny's. Because once I got there, I had ANOTHER brilliant idea: "I know! I'll get the Grand Slam, with two scrambled eggs, two pancakes with seven sticks of butter on it, AND two strips of bacon!"

Perhaps I ought to mention here that I don't always shout these epiphanies to the world. Exclamation marks are added for embellishment and comic relief. On the other hand, I was shouting things later that morning, like "Damn you, Grand Slam breakfast!!" while I struggled to fight through the lethargy caused by eating about 1600 calories for breakfast as I TRIED to complete the tasks of the workday.

But then two things occurred to me: (1) I'm getting older and (2) the "countrified" part of me is slowly dying. The days when I could eat ANYTHING -- a glazed donut, a Whataburger with cheese (no onions) and fries, or fried pies -- without consequence are drawing to a close. Any of these forbidden items now results in a headache or other unwanted conditions that interfere with anything aside from two-hour naps. Argh, I want those days back!

But alas, from now on, it's back to a bowl of Wheaties and yogurt in the morning for me.

On another cheap-breakfast-joint-related note, Jim Gaffigan rags on the Waffle House: