I thought this wasn’t your typical suburban franchise. I thought it was supposed to be like a community gathering space or something, a place where neighbors can get together in a spirit of holy communion and strengthen their bond with a shared experience. That’s what the ad I saw led me to believe. Maybe I read too much into it. I don’t know. All I know is that, as I look around me at all the horned serpents licking BBQ sauce from their flaming goat beards, I’m starting to get the feeling that I’m the only person at this Buffalo Wild Wings on a hallucinogen-fueled collision course with the collective unconscious.
I mean, these chicken wings are alright, I guess. Not really much to them, though. You’d have to eat a hundred just to make the trip worthwhile. But I suppose it’s hard to complain when they only cost a quarter. Having said that, they’re not doing a whole lot in the way of aiding my individuation process. I’m trying to confront my shadow here, guys. Not training for some Coney Island eating contest. And would it kill you to turn the volume down a couple clicks on the background music? I’d like to balance the contra-sexual archetypes of my psyche sometime this century.
Jesus Christ. Was I the only one smart enough to ingest a controlled dose of psilocybin before riding my sister’s bike here on the shoulder of the freeway? Certainly seems like it.
And here’s another tip for management: Don’t call your restaurant “B-Dubs.” Don’t let anyone else call it that, either. The hostesses say B-Dubs. The servers say B-Dubs. The customers say B-Dubs. For those of us accelerating our free fall to the center of the field of consciousness with a mixture of natural psychoactive compounds and prescription stimulants, the incessant B-Dubs refrain becomes a very distracting and all-consuming polyphonic nightmare of frog-like croaking that lends credence to certain conspiracy theories regarding the existence of an otherworldly Reptilian race living amongst us and covertly controlling us via mind waves. It’s quite maddening.
Two thumbs up for the dessert nachos, though. I adorned them with mustard and they tasted of renewal.
Now let’s talk about all the sports stuff. It’s everywhere. Why? At first I thought it an apt metaphor for the conflict between ego and persona. However, when I attempted to engage the glowing orb that refilled my Dr. Pepper on the subject it became sort of an ominous burgundy hue, so I assumed I was off the mark. Is there some other reason you have 30 different NCAA football games playing simultaneously on 90 televisions? Also, why are those televisions receding into infinity in a double helix formation reminiscent of human DNA? Hasn’t anyone ever complained about that? Or am I the only person at this Buffalo Wild Wings trying to self-induce psychological transmutation? Something to consider.
My apologies for the lengthy note. And the mess. I now realize that these are not comment cards but something else (Napkins? Still not entirely sure.), and that this is not a pen but, rather, the bone of a caribbean jerk drumette dipped in my own blood.