People think of Applebee’s as a safe suburban fixture, a place where people go for an innocuous meal at a reasonable price—but strap in, jagoff, because this Applebee’s is not like other Applebee’s. Instead of license plates and joyful Americana, our walls are festooned with divorce certificates and failed attempts at taxidermy.
Most of the animals are dead, at least.
Other Applebee’s branches have sports on TV. So do we—assuming you consider Czechoslovakian pig-throwing a sport. Those guys can really chuck a hog. If you don’t like it, why don’t you just shuffle across the parking lot to Chili’s? They have all the anodyne comforts your dainty bourgeois sensibilities require, like barstools that aren’t eight feet high.
That’s right, our patrons like it when their feet dangle.
Our servers have tattoos that didn’t go right, medically speaking. They’re bleeding and stuff. But once they heal, you’re going to love looking at them, assuming you like seeing shamrocks beating up non-Irish flowers. It sounds harsh, but the flowers had gotten real mouthy with the shamrocks earlier, insulting the clovers’ cousins and whatnot.
Speaking of our servers, they are all legally named “Roach,” and they take eye contact as a threat.
The other Applebee’s hate us, but only because they want to be us. They wish they had the stones to make their mozzarella sticks so long that diners have to hold them sideways like a flute. Or to tell patrons that their loaded fries contain “the antidote” before cryptically receding into the shadows.
Our Applebee’s menu does not have calorie counts. We scratched them out with a switchblade. You either want a Tex-Mex Shrimp Bowl Supreme or you don’t, dickwax. A bunch of fancy numbers ain’t gonna change that.
Some words you won’t see on our menu: zesty, flame-broiled, and kick. These are buzzwords the suits at corporate begged us to use, but we will never deploy soft adjectives to describe our lettuce. Our salads live or die by the crouton count, and if you don’t like it, Roach would be happy to escort you to the hospital.
As for the slogan, “Eatin’ Good in the Neighborhood,” we don’t even know if other branches use it anymore. Our slogan is simple: “Come In or Don’t.” We refuse to plead, which is why you’ll also be washing your own plates.
Look at yourself, with your pleated pants and recently cut hair. You have sensible shoes and common ideas. You could never understand how we’re changing the casual dining paradigm. You want a bacon cheeseburger? Too bad. You’re getting bacon beside a cheeseburger. If you can’t take it from there, then you haven’t earned the sustenance our meat provides.
And don’t even think about tipping 25 percent or whatever ungodly amount the other Applebee’s expect. We don’t accept money. The only way to pay is by etching your darkest childhood memory into our Wall of Pain. It’s in the waiting area, next to the photo of the softball team we promised to sponsor but aren’t.
This Applebee’s goes so hard, we’ve recently received legal paperwork informing us that we’re no longer allowed to call ourselves an Applebee’s. Fine. That was the name our oppressors gave us. From now on, we’ll be called “Da Bee.” It’s kind of like “The Bee,” which is short for “Applebee’s,” but the “Da” kind of makes it edgier.
You think we’re cool, right?