An IHOP Horror Story. This happened to me a few years back, and for some reason it never occurred to me that I should share it with you folk until just now. Pull up a chair, but not too close - this will get messy. I decided to eat lunch at IHOP one day since I had a gift card I hadn't used in like a year. I walked in and was led to one of those tables where one half is a booth and the other is occupied by chairs. I, after double-checking that the tables weren't bolted to the floor, chose the booth and pulled the table about a foot closer. Standard restaurant procedure, so far - but had I known the travesty that would soon unfold directly opposite me, I would have chosen the chair side if not asked for a different table altogether. Right smack in my twelve o'clock was a hispanic mother and daughter. The mother was pushing 350 at like 5' 4", and the daughter couldn't have been older than 6 years but shaped exactly the same as her mother. They were both dressed in sweatpants and those trashy, pastel-colored, doily-necked t-shirts. The poor girl was doomed. Their food arrives and I notice without any shock whatsoever that they both got some kind of cream-filled french toast hiding in fields of powdered sugar and topped with half a can of Reddi Whip. Without missing a beat the girl grabs both the strawberry and blueberry syrup, one in each hand, and pours them all over her plate like she's making a fucking Fourth-of-July themed spin art. She stabs the multi-colored monstrosity with her fork and hoists the entire thing up to her gaping maw, since the mother was too absorbed in her own genetics to bother cutting her daughters food for her. I almost felt bad for the french toast - in less than a minute, the girl had finished it off and discarded the fork in favor of her spoon in order to get the high fructose soup that remained on her plate. During this whole ordeal I was doing my best to distract myself with my phone, and was only catching glimpses of what was transpiring. Yet, woe is me, I happened to glance up at a moment more scarring than when I saw Pink Floyd's The Wall at the tender age of four. It was as if Satan himself tapped me on the shoulder and whispered "You really don't want to miss this." I looked up just as the little girl stood from her chair, slowly as could be, and with a disturbingly deadpan expression proceeded to completely evacuate the contents of her stomach onto the plate from whence it came. It was like The Exorcist meets Willy Wonka, and the sound... Dear Lord the sound. Imagine a mix between gargling and the kind of deep wet belch that follows a beer bong. I never wondered why the noise was so strange, as light travels faster than sound and I had already registered the fact that this girl was puking huge patriotic clumps of still-whipped cream.  That's right - she had swallowed her food without chewing or even mixing it around with her tongue first. Of course the mother leaped up and rushed her daughter to the bathroom - or at least that's what should have happened.  No, mommy decided to let these events play out while she continued her meal.  The girl heaved again, and the poor waitress speed-walked over and asked "Oh my goodness, is she okay?" to which the mother responded "Oh she fine; too much sugar" as if this was a perfectly normal thing to happen.  Another retch.  The waitress was taken aback for a second before following up with "Should we take her to the bathroom?"  I didn't catch what was said next because my waiter showed up with a plate in his hand and said "Um... here's your omelet." I must have given him the thousand-yard-stare, because he immediately asked if I wanted a box.  All I could do was nod and turn my attention back to the complete farce of civilization that lay before me.  The waitress had diligently gotten a cleaning rag from a bucket, while the mother remained seated and used her bare hand to slide the slimy clumps of food off the edge of the table and onto her now-empty plate.  After asking for the check, she used the one clean spot left on her own napkin to half-assedly clean her daughters face and shirt.  Once the bill was paid, they got up and left - without once entering the restroom - leaving the vast majority of the mess to be cleaned up by the staff. The manager insisted on comping my meal, despite me swearing it wasn't necessary - after all, what happened was hardly their fault.  I ended up giving my gift card to someone a few months later, as I just couldn't bring myself to go back.