The Breakfast Club

In my former life, I worked as the world's stodgiest waiter at the world's gayest diner. One Sunday morning, I found myself hungover and hiding from my stupid customers in the kitchen. I stood indolently in the way of the cooks as they slung breakfast after slimy, reheated breakfast.

Eventually I told one of those cooks-- John-- to make me a pancake breakfast with scrambled eggs and bacon. Then I layered the bacon and eggs, along with some cheddar cheese, in between the three pancakes. I gave it to John, who said it was pretty good but awfully dry.

So John did what any hungover math major-cum-short order cook would do when presented with a ridiculous triple-decker pancake sandwich during the middle of his shift at the world's gayest diner: he doused the fucking thing in imitation maple syrup.

And it was delicious as hell. We gave some to the manager, who agreed to promote it as the daily special if we agreed to start putting the syrup on the inside, like ketchup.

"Call it 'The Breakfast Club'," I said.

We gave it a shot, but no one would order the damn thing unless I was there to promote it. It wasn't long before The Breakfast Club was a thing of the past. Adding insult to injury, that very same month saw the introduction of McDonald's's McGriddles breakfast sandwich to our neighborhood. The McGriddles was a hit in spite of its dunderheaded name, and I'm still a nobody. Bullshit.
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If my friend and former co-waiter at the world's gayest diner ever reads this, he'll undoubtedly point out that I'm telling the story all wrong. In advance of these protestations, I submit the following: Fuck you, you home-owning, dog-having, married-getting asshole.

It's my fucking blog.