I took the wife out for dinner last night and I thought I would share this comical anecdote as something of a public service announcement. I want to let everyone know, if you order something off the skillet at Applebee’s, the skillet and the contents of the skillet are going to be darned hot.
If you’ve ever been to Applebee’s, you know they have a dedication to customer service that goes above and beyond the norm. They want to make sure you’re food is delicious, fresh, and hot. Some of the dishes are even served in a skillet right off the grill. In fact, when your server brings it to your table, often times you can hear it popping and crackling. It looks so delicious that it’s very hard to wait on your food and skillet to cool down, but you’ve got to give it a minute or two. Believe me, I found out the hard way.
Around 7:05 last night, Maureen and I decided we’re going to treat ourselves to some good old fashioned homecooking from our favorite restaurant. So we get in the Chevy Tahoe and head on down the road. They greet us more than amicably up front, and we sit in our favorite booth. Our waiter takes our drink orders – big smile here, no problem with that – and retreats to the kitchen. Everything is perfect so far.
Now when he comes back, things start to get dicey. I tell him, “I want an order of the stirloin tips.” He says back, “We don’t have anything on the menu called stirloin tips, sir. We have sirloin tips.” I say, “Well, Jimmy, I think you know what I meant. Just get me the sirloin tips, smart guy.” He says to me, “My name is Chuck, sir.” I say, “Does it really matter, Bobo?”
Maureen tells me to calm down, so I finish my order, and off goes Chuck. Well, when he comes back, he’s got this big grin, and he says to me, “Here are your stirloin tips, sir.” So I shoot back, “Okay, I don’t care for your tone there Chuckie, so don’t bring it up the word stirloin again.” He says, “Just wanted to make you feel more comfortable, sir.” So then I get a little hot, and I yell out a little too loudly, “Okay, well then why don’t you shove this skillet of beef up your fuckin’ ass, fuckface?”
Maureen lets out this audible gasp and slaps me on the arm. She’s apologizing like crazy, and so am I. I can’t believe I let my emotions get the best of me. The kid gets real hot, he drops his pad and paper and untucks his fucking shirt, like he’s ready to go. The manager comes out, calms us both down, tells us the meal will be on the house. Okay, great.
The kid tucks his shirt back in, and before he goes I ask him for another straw for my pink lemonade. He whips one out with a big smile and then – this is where it gets a little bit nuts – and then I thank him. And he says to me –
Right away I snap at him. “You said that on purpose, didn’t you? You’re fucking with me, aren’t you? Aren’t you? Huh? You think you’re better than me?”
He smirks back at me and tries to back away, all smug-like. Well, I grab the little fuckface and go to town on him. He looks for the knockout blow to the face, but immediately I go for straight body shots. Immediately I hear him breathing heavy. Maureen pulls on my arm, tries to get me off the kid. Another waiter is on the kid’s back, trying to slow him down. But we’re just pounding away. It was like Elite XC up in that bitch.
I’m not gonna lie, the kid gets in a lot of decent shots. It’s definitely an even fight. I wouldn’t even put it in my Top 5 Applebee’s fights. Anyways, the kid gets a little crazy and grabs a fire extinguisher off the wall. He wails on my face with it. I have to counter with something, so from the ground I see this one lady with what is clearly a prosthetic leg. So I grab it at the kneecap, pop it off, and before you know it, me and this 17 year old waiter from Applebee’s are fencing using a fire extinguisher and a peg leg. We’re going all over the restaurant. We’re walking over tables, over the bar. This goes on for about four, five minutes.
Finally this big, bulky retired cop gets in the middle of it. He throws the kid through a table and tosses me into the salad bar. The manager tells the kid to leave, and tells me the cops are on their way. That’s when the retired cop comes over to check on me, and I say to him, “Oh, I’m doing just swell. I got a radish up my ass thanks to you, you pig fuck!”
He didn’t like that so much.
The retired cop gives me the beating of a lifetime out in the parking lot and leaves me in the dumpster. After about an hour of just laying there I feel a bag of trash fall onto my head, and it turns out it was the kid from before. Says he’s not through with me. See, I couldn’t let him get away with that. If we had called it a night at that, maybe. But there’s no fucking way I’m letting some little diaper-wearing bastard get the last word in on me. He may have started this war but I am damn sure fucking finishing it.
The next morning I call my buddy Glenallen, who’s ex-CIA. He’s good with computers and shit like that. I was able to push some garbage off of my face the night before and get the retired cop’s license plate number, so I give him that info. He runs the tags and comes back with a name – Matthew Nokes. Isn’t a cop anymore, but he still relies on a steady pension to get by. After wiring Glenallen a hefty payment, he hacks into the police union database and fucks with some of Nokes’ info. Makes it so he won’t receive a pension anymore. And I can tell you that many years from now, when the statute of limitations is up, I will call Matthew Nokes and say to him, “This is what you get for fucking with me, baby. Hope you enjoyed those chicken tenders you ordered the night you kicked my ass!”
But after that’s taken care of, I’m not done. Even though Maureen screams frantically for me to stop this madness, I shake her off and I go down to the Applebee’s to find that little rat fuck who messed with me in the first place. I go into the kitchen and he’s not there. I grab one of the cooks and threaten to beat him with rolling pin if he doesn’t give up the punk’s whereabouts. He tells me the kid’s address, and before I go I make sure to take a sizzling skillet, filled with a chicken fajita. I go to the kid’s house, where he’s on the front porch smoking a splif with his buddies. After I tell the other fuckheads to scram, I administer a solid beatdown with the skillet. For good measure, I eat the fajita and tell him I’m gonna take his mother to see WALL*E at a second-run theater that night.
Here’s the kicker: as I flee the premises, I notice a small welt on my thumb that’s sensitive to the touch. I had been burned substantially. In my blind rage I had neglected to notice the temperature of the skillet.
Moral of the story, kids: skillets can get awful hot, and if you aren’t cautious around them, your wife might leave you.