It all began innocently enough. I was trapped in the semi-suburban environment thanks to a work assignment. Like my ancient hunter-gatherer forbears, I searched for the land that would yield the safest food, but lo, the lunch choices were few: strip mall, big mall, strip mall, big mall. And then I saw it, clinging to the side of the big mall like a koala to a tree; the comfortable predictability and greasy Mecca called Applebee’s.
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Now, admittedly, this was only comforting in the same was as when you wake up in a dumpster and you cut your feet on broken glass as you climb out and your head aches and you’re still drunk and you’re naked and everyone around you is speaking Spanish and you say to yourself, “wow, at least it’s not raining”.* But even that small comfort can be pretty damn kick-ass.
So I sauntered up and pressed through the heavy oaken door like Gandalf going to see his buds and found the hostess, not gossiping and ignoring me, but looking straight at me! Already I knew this lunch would be different. She smiled and cocked her head, showing off three or four earrings in her right ear. She had too much eye shadow and a couple of freckles and her little red Applebee’s knit shirt barely strained across her chest but it was nice. She looked at me in the same way as a waitress in a particularly nasty strip club, with that half-smoldering, half-reproving look that says “Oh yeah, I know you’re going to tip those dancers heavy and I know you’re going to leave me nothing but an empty glass but I also know I’m a better lay than any of them and I know you can’t get a date to save your life and I know what your wife would do to you if she walked in right now so you WILL GIVE ME ZERO SHIT.” *
I got a table near the bar (no reservations nec. at Applebee’s… yea!) and took in the scene. Everything seemed perfect. Bogus stained glass everywhere, from the windows to the lampshades to the kooky awning over the bar spelling out “Applebee’s”. Low risk carpet, tacky art and sports shit crammed into every square inch of wall space, even the random carousel horse perched next to a planter of plastic plants seemed, if not “just like home”, the just like the home of that girl down the street who has the really rich parents (with no taste) that leave her alone for days at a time because they know she’s a good kid and have no idea she’s been smokin’ dope since age twelve and, having fucked all the boys she knows on the pool table downstairs, is now steadily and methodically seducing older men at the Holiday Inn lounge and bringing them home to do her doggie style on Mom & Dad’s bed.* Basically tacky, in other words, bud oddly hot once you realize what’s actually been going on in there.
So there I was with this weird state of mind when my server appeared like a vision, another 20-year-old goddess just beginning to appreciate her talents. She had amazing skin, delicate earrings, eyes of fire and lips with just the right blend of color and gloss, and as she spoke, I could just catch the flash of her tongue piercing. I became fixated, nay, captivated. I was so entranced just watching her tongue flick against her teeth that I began asking menu questions just so she wouldn’t stop talking. Her mouth caressed each word as she deftly worked her way, with hardly a lisp, through bread types, salad dressing choices, different kinds of fountain drinks available, and finally, shifting her hips and breathing in, her chest rising ever so slightly, she asked if I wanted my chicken wings Regular, Hot, or Spicy Hot.
That’s when it began, the stirring down below that told me there was no way I was going to be able to get up from the table any time soon. I let the words she had spoken replay in my mind, jumbled and re-jumbled for maximum effect. This beautiful girl had more or less just said “Dressing Spicy Hot Wings Italian Oil Comes Mountain Dew Or Beer”, and she’d said it all with a smile and a pierced tongue. Oh, to hold her hands over her head and make her repeat it over and over!
It’s amazing how your world is transformed when the horniness takes over. Suddenly, when the boner has made itself your master, your entire environment dedicates itself to prolonging that feeling. Every single one of those Applebee’s wage slaves was gorgeous, and even the short girl singing along cheerfully with the carefully designed non-offensive Christmas music made me want to bounce her on my lap and shout Ho! Ho! Ho! while she sang. This was like that old story of temptation by what’s-his-name who wrote about temptresses and whatnot, or what it would be like if Hefner put in an Applebee’s at the Playboy Mansion.
The bartender was an angry blonde girl, queen of the eyeliner, and clearly the rebellious type. She seemed pissed that despite being over 21, she was still stuck here at Applebee’s, instead of moving on to better things, like, I don’t know, Chevy’s? She used the measuring thingy for every shot, surely an Applebee’s policy, but then she’d dump in more straight from the bot. When a Sunrise didn’t quite reach the top of the glass, she topped it off with tequila! Hell yea! She seemed disappointed every time someone ordered a non-alcoholic drink, calling out “virgin?” every time, bordering on shouting. I had visions of her holding the Coors Light and Bud Light taps while I stood behind her, and her shouting “Virgin! Virgin! Virgin!” as we moved in rhythmic, sweaty bliss. Hey, unexpected Applebee’s boners make you think like that.
Even the greasy food was turning me on. When my spicy hot server came back, providing me with plenty of napkins, “coz that might get messy”, I tore into my wings with sensual pleasure, rending that chicken flesh caveman-style, with my teeth and bare hands. The Spicy Hot sauce quickly seared my lips, and I didn’t even care. I just wondered to myself, if I pushed all this crap off the table and laid my server back and pulled her thong aside and let my burning lips tell her a story, could she take it? Yeah. “Might Get Messy Dew Hot Oil Comes Side French Serving Sourdough!” Don’t even ask me about how that Sourdough got in there, man, I don’t even fucking know.
Guys know that sometimes you got to think of non-sexual situations to get you out of messes like this. Used to be Margaret Thatcher or algebra would do it for me, but now I’m a little more sophisticated. I started thinking about how all Applebee’s might be alike; you know, like how all Denny’s are the same? Then I thought, what if Applebee’s is some kind of temporal vortex, like there IS only ONE Applebee’s, and no matter where you go in the world, whenever you open the door to an Applebee’s, you get sucked through a wormhole to this exact spot. What if all these places… Denny’s, Luby’s, Lyon’s, Fuddrucker’s, TGI Friday’s, Chevy’s, Chili’s… what if they’re all temporal vortexes… some kind of Donnie Darko thing? What if an apostrophe-S at the end of the name is like a secret code or something, to denote a trans-dimensional dining establishment? Man, if I could come back here and get wood this good any time, I could maybe give up online porn!*
Sitting there wondering about the fabric of the universe seemed to help, but what really quashed the rigidity of the diggity was the following conversation between two male Applebee’s drones who had previously escaped my notice:
“I hit him so hard, bro. Like -doosh-.”
“He just fell to his knees, and his head’s all wobbly like.”
“And I was just like –doosh-doosh-doosh- and he went over, dude.”
“Dude; aw mannnn, DUDE!”
At first, hearing this bummed me out, because listening to two punk-ass kids describe their weekend is a definite anti-Viagra. But then I noticed a little later how the frisky co-workers talked to them:
“We’re going to totally make a project out of you and find you a real woman.”
“You SO need to stop wasting your time on her; you need a woman, not a little girl.”
And this from someone clearly under 21 herself! If she had a chance to talk to a real man, someone with the life experience and scaled lips to take her to a higher level, someone with a vocabulary, someone with skills, someone already so scandalized and scarred that he’ll never be president,* whoa, such a guy could do more than okay behind the scenes at Applebee’s! He could get some Dockers and be a fuckin’ Manager! Yeah!
My waitress came back and asked “Can I get you anything else?”, and then, the spunky hostess came over too, and said, “yeah, there’s a lot on the menu for $50…” and they started giggling and touching each other…. okay, that didn’t actually happen, but right then I decided I have got to pick up an application on my way out. I wonder if you need special skills to work in a temporal vortex?
I left a twenty dollar tip. God, I need a shower.
*Not that I would actually, personally, know what that’s like, you know, on a first-person basis.