The crippling bubble guts experienced after every IHOP dining experience is enough alone to stomp the shaking fingers of your soul as it desperately hangs from the edge of the abyss and now there’s this. Nothing says paradise like stepping on a gum bomb on the way into a stinking hot IHOP in some strip mall in Elkhart Indiana. I guess the spilled coffee grounds on the floor is like sand. And the smell of stale alcohol and surprising amount of prescription sunglasses and puke stained Senor Frog’s shirts from the degenerates in the booths adjacent is resembles a forbidden paradise of sorts.
Maybe a bite off of these will take you back to the time you went to Sandals Jamaica a decade ago. Another bite will send the memories swirling and the last bite will have you hearing the waves crash against the melting ice in your extra-large diet Pepsi. Before you know it you’re uncomfortably full and planted firmly on the can of a sketchy bathroom. Struggling for dear life against the oppressive heat. Just like when you caught a hold of some bad shellfish at that mystical Sandals resort.
So don’t travel. Don’t bother, there is nothing to see out there. There is no paradise. There is no culture. You’re paradise is mediocre breakfast chain in a strip mall in your home town. Your culture is Senor Frogs and themed pancakes.