The Grand Slam

Years ago, before we moved to Florida, we used to have breakfast with John's brothers and his dad every once in awhile, usually at Perkins because that's the caliber of food that John's dad likes. He's a notoriously bad eater. As hard as John's stepmother tries, she can't get the man to eat well. On one particular occasion, she didn't join us for breakfast, and it's probably for the best. That morning, John's dad ordered something called a Grand Slam, which has enough hash browns, pancakes, eggs, bacon, and biscuits and gravy to feed a small army. It also comes with a fruit cup, more of an afterthought than anything. The fruit cup seems to exist only to prevent customers' arteries from hardening until after they've paid the bill. John's dad quickly recognized that the fruit cup was out of place and, true to form, he asked for it to be replaced. "Could I get the Grand Slam, but could I replace the fruit cup with another order of biscuits and gravy?"