Hello my name is Bulbo and I am a Denny's-holic.

I am finally willing to accept the truth. I am addicted to Denny’s. Does that mean I am ready to face my inner demons, fight the brave fight and emerge a better man for it? Sadly … no.

You can tear off the back two thirds of the menu at Denny’s and not lose anything worth missing (except the diet coke). If you order anything but breakfast at this shrine with the yellow sign, you are a sad and sick little person. I am sorry if you are one of these poor lost souls but that is just the way it is.

I have been known to venture forth on my pilgrimage of indulgence at the drop of a hat at any hour of the day or night. Nothing sings to my gut like a French toast slam with a side of hash and keep the diet coke a ‘coming ( I base my tip entirely on how full my diet coke is at any given point during the meal).

My wife doesn’t understand the depth of my problem but occasionally she allows me my guilty pleasure. This Saturday was one such blessed moment. On any given weekend if I am woken at 5:45 a.m. due to a size six toddler foot planted firmly in my stomach half falling out of bed being held in only by the tenuous grasp of entangled sheets, grumpy MAY come close to describing the beginnings of my emotional state. But this particular morning my wife piped up with the unexpected comment, “Let’s all go to Denny’s.” Suddenly the heavens opened and a choir of angels serenaded five befuddled people in pajamas as they piled into the mini van and were off to the greatest place on earth.

“I’ll have a French toast slam…”