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.
