I Would Fight Joel Osteen in a Waffle House at 3AM and Win

This is the story of a Joel Osteen Waffle House fight I’ve imagined far too often.

Let’s set the scene. It’s 3:06 AM. The Waffle House is mostly empty except for one guy asleep in a booth, a cook who looks like he’s done time, and me—hunched over hash browns I didn’t order right. Then he walks in. Joel Osteen. Smiling like the WiFi password is grace and the tip is optional. Wearing some half-ironed golf pastor fit that probably cost more than my car.

I don’t say anything at first. I let him order. Probably something blessed. Probably eggs with a side of it’s not a grift if God’s in it. He asks for his coffee with almond milk and a miracle. That’s when I know. The fight must happen.

I stand up. I nod at the cook. He nods back. He’s seen this before.

The first punch doesn’t land. Joel’s fast. That man’s dipped in holy water and privilege. He dodges like he’s been trained by megachurch ninjas. But I’m scrappy. I’m powered by trauma, spite, and the 47 grams of sodium in this waffle. The second swing connects. Right in the prosperity gospel.

The fight is brutal. Syrup flies. A plate shatters. At one point Joel tries to baptize me with a cup of coffee but it’s decaf so I barely feel it. I scream Name it and claim this motherf***er and launch a biscuit.

It ends when he slips on a laminated Bible tract someone left on the floor. Divine intervention? Maybe. All I know is I stand over him, breathing heavy, victorious, my receipt crumpled in one fist, his Rolex in the other. The cook just claps once and goes back to flipping bacon.

I tip forty percent. Not for God. For the chaos.

If you survived this tale of syrup and scripture, you’ll probably enjoy the book that inspired this chaos: My Roomba Joined ISIS and Took the Kids. It’s just as deranged. Maybe worse.