Doesn't that sound scary? It does! "The Den of the Red Lobster!" But you don't know the half of it. It's not just the lobsters there that are scary (lobsters are scary, alive and dead), but the people at Red Lobster -- they're skinheads!
I'd always thought that the skinheads were all dead -- all that anger is bad for your heart, so your average skinhead has a life expectancy of about thirty days -- but was I ever wrong. They're all at Red Lobster. I don't know if it's a breeding population or what, but they're there, and they all wear those lobster-print shirts, and they're mad as ever (which probably has a lot to do with the shirts).
I was at the Red Den this weekend, using a gift card I recieved from my great aunt. I was wondering just what the menu meant by "surf and turf," so I started yelling for a waiter. Along comes this shining-headed young man, with a lobster-red face. He had a lot of pins on his shirt, most of them swastikas, or at least alluding to naziism. I mean, how many ways can you interpret "Nobody's Perfect, But I Keep Trying!"?
Anyway, I asked the little facist my question, and right away he says, "It's steak and lobster, bitch." And that was a weird thing to say, because I'm not any kind of bitch. I tried to tell him that I knew it was steak and lobster, but I wanted to know exactly what it was, when he interupted me to say "We don't serve your kind here."
Now, I assumed that by my "kind," he meant "aristocrat." That's obviously an oxymoron, because we are served everywhere. I tried to explain this, but his face just got even redder, and he practically shouted (it was hard to tell, because everybody shouts in Red Lobster) "No! I meant... Koreans!"
I don't know exactly where "Korea" is, but I'm pretty sure that's not where I'm from (unless it's in England -- Chesterton is an old and respected English family). Nevertheless, I was very indignant, and I took my giftcard and left. I left that little goosestepper sweating and spitting all over the table. I think he might have been having some kind of seizure, but after everything that had happened I felt no obligation to help him out. Plus, I realized that the giftcard was homemade, and it was for a batch of my great aunt's "famous" sugar cookies, so I figured I should get out of there.
Let this be a warning to everyone, though. The skinheads are alive and well, and they are canoodling with lobsters in every major city. Bring your crucifixes, bitches.
I'd always thought that the skinheads were all dead -- all that anger is bad for your heart, so your average skinhead has a life expectancy of about thirty days -- but was I ever wrong. They're all at Red Lobster. I don't know if it's a breeding population or what, but they're there, and they all wear those lobster-print shirts, and they're mad as ever (which probably has a lot to do with the shirts).
I was at the Red Den this weekend, using a gift card I recieved from my great aunt. I was wondering just what the menu meant by "surf and turf," so I started yelling for a waiter. Along comes this shining-headed young man, with a lobster-red face. He had a lot of pins on his shirt, most of them swastikas, or at least alluding to naziism. I mean, how many ways can you interpret "Nobody's Perfect, But I Keep Trying!"?
Anyway, I asked the little facist my question, and right away he says, "It's steak and lobster, bitch." And that was a weird thing to say, because I'm not any kind of bitch. I tried to tell him that I knew it was steak and lobster, but I wanted to know exactly what it was, when he interupted me to say "We don't serve your kind here."
Now, I assumed that by my "kind," he meant "aristocrat." That's obviously an oxymoron, because we are served everywhere. I tried to explain this, but his face just got even redder, and he practically shouted (it was hard to tell, because everybody shouts in Red Lobster) "No! I meant... Koreans!"
I don't know exactly where "Korea" is, but I'm pretty sure that's not where I'm from (unless it's in England -- Chesterton is an old and respected English family). Nevertheless, I was very indignant, and I took my giftcard and left. I left that little goosestepper sweating and spitting all over the table. I think he might have been having some kind of seizure, but after everything that had happened I felt no obligation to help him out. Plus, I realized that the giftcard was homemade, and it was for a batch of my great aunt's "famous" sugar cookies, so I figured I should get out of there.
Let this be a warning to everyone, though. The skinheads are alive and well, and they are canoodling with lobsters in every major city. Bring your crucifixes, bitches.
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