Most people probably remember Chris Rock’s skit where he proposed that Native Americans have bigger problems than Black people, and offered up this statement as proof:
“When’s the last time you ever saw TWO Indians? You ain’t never seen a bunch of Indians just chillin’ at Red Lobster”
Well, just imagine how hilarious I found it when, after doing a dance performance with a group from NMAI, 17 Indians actually piled into a Red Lobster for dinner afterwards.
Figure 1: A bunch of Indians (some more Indian than others, it would seem)
Going to Red Lobster always seems like a good idea until you actually get there. Then you see the masses of insultingly overweight people waiting in the lobby looking to compound their health problems and raise taxes on everybody. You also notice an equal or greater amount of fatness anchored at the tables in the restaurant. You see gigantic piles of fried food, butter, and other artery-clogging fatness-inducing swill…and you slowly begin to realize that all of these people are going to take at least 2 hours each to finish their meal.
There are three ways to entertain yourself during your excruciatingly long wait:
1.) Grab a beer or six at the bar and start getting fucked up
2.) Observe the large number of young couples at the restaurant. Try to remember that, when you were young and broke, Red Lobster was to you what Kinkead’s is to a congressman. In spite of your attempt to empathize, you choke on your beer a little bit when you hear some 18 year old sincerely tell her boyfriend “you such a baller, baby.”
3.) Mock the lobsters in the water tank in the lobby. Make strange 18th century-sounding declarations of criminal punishment like “for your crimes against oceanic aesthetics, you are hereby sentenced to boil until delicious.” For extra points, take one of the lobsters out of the tank and chase terrified children with it until you are arrested or punched in the face by an angry father.
Eventually, the hostess calls you and you sit down excited about the fact that you’re finally going to eat. Most of all, you’re excited about the delectable biscuits that you’re sure to receive within the next five minutes. You ignore your father’s comment about the tables being arranged in the shape of “a cock and balls” and take your seat.
Figure 2: Our table configuration. He coulda said it looked like an exclamation point…
The biscuits come out right on time, served to you by an 18 year old redneck girl named ‘Cindy’ who insists on calling you ‘honey’ and ‘sweetheart’. You respond to this by referring to her as ‘pop tart’ with your mouth full while eating your biscuits, but this does not seem to deter her familiar tone.
Figure 3: Pretty much the only reason anybody goes to Red Lobster
Since you’ve been waiting 45 minutes, you gobble down four of these biscuits and, after drinking two glasses of water, you realize that you’re pretty much full already. Not only are you full, but you feel like shit because your stomach is now filled with a year’s worth of butter and garlic. You’re at Red Lobster, though, and there is no time for weakness. You open up the menu and behold how delicious everything looks – especially the beloved Admiral’s Feast: a breaded, battered, Neptunian heart attack in waiting that could be considered the most humane way to slowly kill a person. The Admiral’s Feast consists of a big ass chunk of fried fish, fried clams, fried shrimp, and fried bay scallops with a side order of your choosing that’s supposed to delude you into thinking you’re eating healthy. There’s nothing more ridiculous than someone ordering the Admiral’s Feast with a side of vegetables, which is akin to asking for a candle and romantic musing while getting raped in prison.
If someone orders the Admiral’s Feast before you, then you have to order something else. You either go for the endless shrimp or the snow/king crab legs, which are exceedingly delicious when served with warm melted butter.
Figure 4: The awesomeness is rivaled only by that of pancakes
No matter what you order, you come to the understanding that you are going to be absolutely miserable for the next hour. The garlic biscuits and the hydrochloric acid in your stomach are having World War III in your insides to decide if your food is going to come out of your asshole in 3 hours or back out of your mouth in 3 minutes. Thankfully, God anticipated the creation of Red Lobster because it was he that made garlic and biscuits delicious, so he also made most stomachs strong enough to win the war – which is usually winding down by the time you receive your Admiral’s Feast or your crab legs.
As you eat (and you do so out of spite rather than hunger, because you are already full as a motherfucker), you watch with horror as some of the people at your table are somehow able to devour an entire Admiral’s Feast in 7 minutes. They are ordering dessert while you’re still plugging away at the fried clams. You know they’re delicious but, like a man having his 6th orgasm of the night, the pleasure isn’t really registering anymore.
If you’re lucky enough to finish your meal, you want to fucking die. You never want to see a Red Lobster, or food, or the people you’re with ever again for as long as you live. You push yourself back from the table, lean back by sliding your ass forward in the seat, hold your belly and loudly exhale “WHEEEEEEEEEW” like you just got done splitting wood for six hours. You look at the table and behold the disaster area that it has become. There are shells, napkins, half drank glasses of water, sauce, and other shit all over the fucking place. Despite the fact that you feel like shit and weigh at least a metric ton, this carnage gives you an oddly primal sense of satisfaction. That is…until the bill shows up.
Figure 5: Everybody acts like the bill is for this much.
Black people and Indians have at least one cultural trait in common: when the bill shows up, everyone looks around at everyone else like they have no idea what the fuck is going on. They look like a guy would if he just got head from his girlfriend and she sits up and demands $300. After lots of groaning, arguing over the tip, gross underpayment by some people, and an extra 30 minutes, you are finally ready to leave.
As you walk to the car, you realize that you just PAID someone to shorten your lifespan and make you feel like vomit. You are terrified that you will fall asleep at the wheel on the way home. You vow never to return to Red Lobster…even though you know damn well your black ass will be back in about 8 weeks.