International House of Pancakes. We meet again. Oh, how you tempt me with your stuffed French toast and your blueberry syrup. I thought I’d finally escaped your tasty clutches but you just won’t leave me be, will you?

Now you’re using unfair tactics, IHOP. Now you’re bringing family into this? And not in the gentlemanly fashion, either, with a casual Yo Mama joke, but instead by asking how great my father is.

IHOP, you know perfectly well my Dad is awesome. How dare you offer me a chance to win a hundred dollar gift card for your fluffy pancakes drizzled with fresh strawberries and other delicious fare? To this day, I am haunted by warm, happy dreams about that seafood omelette. Of course I’d have no choice but to write to you about the time my Dad stayed up all night making cinnamon rolls from his secret, ancient family recipe for my cub scout bake sale in the hope that my story would be one of the five winners. I would tell you about his steadfastness and love for his children, all the while hoping for the prize of Belgian waffles and fresh juice. IHOP, you are a fiend.

Why can’t I quit you?