My girl just asked me if I wanted to go to Bob Evans with her and my mother for breakfast.

I replied, "Someone has to stay here and scratch Mister's crotch." (Yes, I scratch my dog's crotch area for him.)

She was bitter but I care not friends. Sunday morning at Bob Evans? Have fun milling around for 30 minutes while all the old folks sip coffee and speak of old times.

Sunday morning has to be the worst time to go to a restaurant.