Sunday, October 29, 2006

You Can't Spell 'Bob Evans' Without Wishing You'd Eaten Somewhere Else

So the whole family traveled to visit my sister Runtie this weekend.

This morning we had breakfast at Bob Evans because we like to party. And we also like having diarrhea.

We were very proud of my father for not insisting that we eat at the Hampton Inn, especially since we weren't staying there. He just really likes their cream cheese danish. Every morning on his way to work he stops there to get a pastry and sometimes a clean set of sheets or a new desk chair.

I'm pretty sure a Bob Evans is what happens after Cracker Barrel has sex with Wal-Mart. They're half restaurants, half gift shops stocked with products too shitty for QVC. If you ever need a set of Momma's Family porcelain dolls, a wallet made of Lincoln Logs, or an All My Children diaphragm, this is your place. They also have a large selection of candles and Bob Evans-flavored products, either of which would make you the envy of the other residents at the Rescue Mission.

Two thoughts:

1) I have never, ever walked out of Robert Evans' restaurant wishing that more meals I prepared at home could have their patented Ohio-y taste. This morning I spent at least four minutes after breakfast vigorously scraping my tongue on the sleeve of the scarecrow decoration outside the door, trying to get rid of the residue from 'Grandpa's Down Home Rusty Ol' Skillet Plate with Kountry Gravy and Oily Rags'.

2) All of the candles available for purchase had some sort of food scent, like Banana Bread or Pumpkin Pie or Freezer Burn. Since I never light candles anywhere than in my bathroom, there's no way I'm buying those. I don't really like to equate pooping with the aroma of baked goods. Nothing will ruin Thanksgiving faster than having an uncontrollable Pavlovian poop response when Grandma places the pumpkin pie on the table. No, the candles I burn have the smell of things I'm unfamiliar with, like 'Hope' or 'Maturity' or 'Potential'.

Thank God they don't combine the items to make Bob Evans-scented candles. Sure it's home cookin' (assuming your home shares a parking lot with a Days Inn) but every menu item smells exactly like the sawdust that an elementary school janitor sprinkles on vomit.

And yes, I like to think that I'm the first person to ever use the phrase "Pavlovian poop response".

That's why you readers keep coming back.

1 comment:

Carrie said...

I used to work at Bob Evans and I was crying because I was laughing so hard reading this entry. Oh my...