So, the Butcher turns twenty-five on Sunday. It’s also all-you-can-eat shrimp time at Red Lobster. Last year, he could eat 140 shrimp over the course of three hours.
If you think going to Red Lobster is boring, try sitting in the Red Lobster for three hours as the Butcher and your waitress engage in an epic battle. She’s delivering his shrimp as slowly as possible, hoping he’ll get bored and go home. He’s eating them as quickly as possible, in an effort to bring out the next batch. You’re sitting there wondering if the other patrons–some of whom are surely crackheads–might stab you in the neck and put you out of your misery.
We have been going to Red Lobster for as long as I can remember. It is, as far as our family is concerned, a fancy restaurant for special occasions.
Every birthday of everyone in our family was celebrated at Red Lobster. Each wedding anniversary, end of school, end of probation–all ended up at Red Lobster.
For my readers who are not from the U.S. or who have somehow managed to get through life without going to Red Lobster, let me tell you what it’s like. Say you live your whole life with only regular 8×10 notebook paper with which to wipe your ass. But let us also say that on special occasions, like your birthday, you were given a roll of paper towel. One day you grow up and, though you cannot afford for three nubile virgins to wipe your ass with their bare hands, you can at least afford toilet paper.
We can afford toilet paper, at this point. We’re eating at the restaurant equivalent of paper towel. It’ll do in a pinch, but why he’s choosing it, I just don’t know.