Long John Silver’s Saga

I went to Long John Silver’s last night – hereinafter it shall be referred to as “LJS” – and was alarmed at what I found.  While in line, I noticed an advertisement trying to get me to buy something called a “Seafood Feast.”  When did LJS start serving seafood?  I mean, a place named after some mythical grease laden, fried-fish-flogging pirate actually serving seafood is baffling.  In all however close I come to seriousness, no shit?  Isn’t everything other than the fries, hush puppies and yardbird planks seafood?  Can you really sell “feasts” through drive thru’s?  That concept is kinda like the carry-out buffet.  Completely fucking pointless.  The idea of a buffet is to clog your arteries, and add as many rolls to whatever region of your body is most susceptible to rolling.  Like the military, a buffet allows you to eat all you can eat.  You can’t take home multiple trips.  The amounts provided in take-out buffets are, on average, smaller than one and a 1/2 plates.  If you’re not planning on making enough trips to get a TripTick from AAA, then order from the menu.

But, back to LJS, you’ll be happy to know that the wait in line, and fucking up of your order is still free.  Every time I go there, it’s like they are flabbergasted someone would order fish AND shrimp.  I’m always “asked” to wait.  As if you could respond in the negative and you’d get your food faster.  If you’ve paid, you’ve been taken hostage.  The act of canceling an order and requesting a refund from a fast food joint is more arduous than filling out all the loan documents for borrowing enough money to go to the fucking movies.  Quickly, you ever been behind someone so long in the drive thru teller line at the bank that it seems as though they are applying for a loan?  What are some of these fucking people doing? Are they trying to deposit or withdraw dough in metric quantities?  Can you request your dubloons instead of American currency?

Anyway, there’s always a long line at the fast fish dispensary.  It doesn’t matter what time of day or night.  If you dare ask them to beg off the cole slaw, or try to make any personal adjustments to whatever number “platter” or “sampler” you get, be prepared wait longer than John Holmes trying to get hard after major blood loss.  I recommend taking your taxes or an abridged version of War & Peace if you actually intend to exercise independence at LJS.  I always require extra hush puppies to be subsituted for slaw.  I have an ingrained, inherited, insane fear of mayonnaise, sour cream and all other white, creamy condiments.  50% of the time, this goes off without a hitch.  However, when it goes wrong, it goes wronger than To Wong Fu ( I still have no fucking clue who Julie Newmar is).  There’s a chance you may end up with extra cole slaw.  Sometimes you end up with no hush puppies and no cole slaw.  Sometimes you’re just ignored.  Sometimes you may even end up with a cheeseburger if it is one of those double entendre LJS/A&W joints.

One particular time my order got so screwed up, I turned around and went back to the store after going home and discovering the humanity.  I think they gave me extra fries instead of fish, clams instead of shrimp, and an I.O.U. for the chicken plank.  Everything at LJS comes with a chicken plank.  I guess schools of yardbirds traveled with fish back in the olden days.  Hey, this just in.  Like I think I was saying, my blood got so angried up I drove back.  I rolled up into the joint like a man hopped up on mercury-infused breading.  I asked for the manager.  A chic with a name tag claiming her authority came up to ask me why I was frothing at the mouth and trying to lick the metal counter – I have no clue where that came from.  I explained I had ordered some specific number sampler, but I had been given a sample of something someone else wanted to sample.  She asked me for my reciept.  She looked at it, and then proceeded to inform me the number on the reciept matched what I got.  I did not dispute this.  Problem was, that wasn’t the fucking number samplatter I had ordered.  The numerical consistency was given to me as the reasoning why I was in the wrong.  My response was to point out that just because the number on the reciept and what I received coincided, it did not mean the fish fried fool who took the order didn’t fuck it up.  She referred me back to the receipt.  I once again pointed to examples of human error throughout history.  New Coke.  Carrot Top.  Segways.  Breast reductions.  This list went on.  She finally offered to give me the same numbered samplatter I was given, but did not order.  I gave up at this point.  I didn’t cuss.  I didn’t scream.  I just turned around and left.  There was no point.  Not even Captain Jack Sparrow could have righted my seafood ship at that point.

I learned the hard way that mateys stick together no matter what.  Whether it’s making the leader of a thwarted mutiny walk the plank, or screwing someone out of a chicken plank, they ain’t going to admit they’re wrong.  I threatened to never go back.  Then I got on one of those “I’m going on a diet tomorrow, so I’m blowing it out tonight” binges and returned.  That funky gold breading and all those crumble thingies do call to you like the siren song of a fast food mermaid.  It’s a bitch because Captain D’s is too far, dirty and creepy to frequent.  Sex offenders dress like pirates and eat there hoping someone will ask to feel their “wooden” leg.

I’m out.

JIS

This post was written by Joffrey Ignatius Simpson on April 6, 2011
Posted Under: Most Hated

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