Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Chili's by The Long Beach Aquarium

I'm making my own screen savers.
Tania’s BFF Christy was in town with her kid and they decided we would all take a field trip to the Long Beach Aquarium. I was a little worried because the general consensus in regards to the aquarium is that it sucks. I saw a lot of negative reviews on Yelp.


“Worst 'quarm.”

“Very, very, very sucks.”


“That is so stupid.”

The one problem with all of these bad reviews is that they were comparing the LBC aquarium to the world renowned Monterey Bay Aquarium just a couple hundred miles north. Unfortunately, not only does the LBC aquarium suck in comparison, but so does every other aquarium in the world. The Monterey Bay aquarium is beyond comparison, thus it is unfair to judge anything in relation to it. If you take Monterey out of the equation, however, the Long Beach Aquarium of the Pacific is a fine aquarium with lots of cool tanks. There are sharks, seals, jellyfish, and even playful otters. They also have small troughs filled with sea slugs, and starfish, and other disgusting things that they let you touch. It’s sort of like an underwater petting zoo, but instead of stinky goats, you stroke snot. 
This thing tried to pull me in.
“What are their names?” I wondered to the slug wrangler when it was my turn to stick my hands in the water. She said they didn’t have names. “No names?” I said surprised. “Can I name them?” I asked. Best to ask permission before you go around naming animals that don’t belong to you. Their keepers might subscribe to a Montessori philosophy and are waiting for the animal to name itself.

“Sure, I guess,” the attendant said.

Tania is a black belt at naming seals and other sea creatures, and thus she usually handles this sort of thing, but she thought this would be a good opportunity for me to get my foot in the door and suggested I give it a go. And so here is a catalog of some of the names I came up with:

Slimon the Diamond, Boogers Snot Com, Wet Taffy The Elder, Dear Old Used Condom Carl, Suck On It Sylvester, Jean Luc the Sand Junky, Barry the Bewildering Baltic Blind Banana, Ole Slow Poke (“The Cheetah of the Sea”), Dimitry the Underwater Arms Dealer, Herman the Echinoderman, etc.. 
Bill and Ted were having an excellent adventure.
This is Christy's kid, Preston. "Hey, Preston, make a shark face," I said. "Huh?" Preston said.

"Make a—" "I know, I heard you. God. Hold on, I'm thinking of a good one… okay I got one."
 But one of my favorite things about visiting the Long Beach Aquarium is getting to eat lunch on the marina. And in my opinion, there’s only one place to go. It’s a funky little joint with a real deal, south-of-the-border name and the cooking to back it up. This place is going old school and it’s called Chili’s.

Chili’s has been serving up homemade, down home cooking since 1975. And when you walk into the restaurant that is just a short walk from the Aquarium, you’re transported back in time. Your eyes are bludgeoned with a vast array of authentic memorabilia that makes you feel like you are in a cantina that straddles the border between Texas and Mexico.

“You put the knick knack in Knick Knack Paddy Whack Give a Dog a Bone!” I said to the hostess as she walked us to our bangin’ booth. “That’s how we roll, dog!” I said. Tania and Christy et al ordered a bevy of food from our waitress, but the most important item we ordered was the queso. Queso is Christy’s favorite food. She doesn’t eat anything else—actually she eats one other thing, spaghetti I think, but mostly queso. She’s the opposite of a foodie, she’s like a foo. Or maybe even just a fo. 
Leggo my queso, Plato! Or I'll break-o your face-o!
As the waitress placed the bowl of queso on the table, I stood up, pushed my chair back, and made a very dramatic step away from the table. “Whoa!” I said. My body language showed that I didn’t want to get any queso on my money shirt. “I don’t think so,” I said with a hearty guffaw. That’s my lucky shirt that I wear to Vegas when I go out with the boys and we gamble and I yell things in the casino like, “THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT!” and, “LET’S DO THIS!®©™” (LET’S DO THIS!®©™, incidentally, is my new catch phrase for 2011. I own it.)

Once the cheese was on the table I resumed my place and dug in. “Oh, that is money!” I said with my mouth full of the first bite. “You could wipe that on the inside of a urinal in a public restroom in Flavor Town and I’d lick it off!” 
Next up was the chili. Hey, you can’t go to Chili’s without trying a bowl of their signature red. I rolled my sweatband up my forearm a little further and dug in for my first bite. 
Actually, the Chili looks like the inside of a toilet bowl in a public restroom in Flavor Town. Mmmm.
“This rocks, brother!” I said with beans and sauce dangling from my confusing facial hair pattern like dingleberries off the butthole on a stray dog wandering the streets of Flavor Town. And then the heat started to mount on my tongue. “Wow, man, that chili’s got some kick! That’s the kind of kick you get when you get sent to the Flavor Town penitentiary and your cellmate punches you in the back of the head after he’s done buttfucking you! You should call this ‘Donkey Pun-Chili!’ LET’S DO THIS!®©™”

Finally, the star of the show, the famous Chili’s burger arrived. “Is that 80-20 mix?” I said to the waitress as she set it down before me. Almost all chefs use a mixture of ground beef that is 80% meat and 20% fat, but I always like to say it out loud because it makes me sound like a real chef and not some douchebag that wears his sunglasses on the back of his head and opened some cockamamie restaurant that serves up “collision food”—note that I am talking about food that is neither “fusion” nor “cuisine”—which is a head-on collision between Texas BBQ and sushi. I like to describe it as, “It’s what you get when you strap a rodeo bull and a sumo wrestler to two oncoming bullet trains: a total disaster! YEEHAW! ARIGATO!” Trust me, it rocks.

“Eighty twenty?” the waitress finally said. “Um, I don’t know? I can go check for you, though?”

“Wait a minute,” I said, and I pointed out the window. “Are those two sheep having sex on that yacht?” I asked.

“What?” she said looking where I pointed.

Which was totally in the opposite direction of my plate. While she was looking for my fantasy fucking flock, I stole a fistful of fries and stuffed them in my face. 

“What?” she said turning back around.

But it was too late, my face was filled with fries. "Fistful of fantasy flock fucking face fries!" I’m a crazy guy sometimes. What can I say? “Wham bam thank you ma’am!”
My burger looks like what's in between the legs of my favorite Flavor Town hooker! Guess which one tastes like old fish!
Confused, the waitress left us alone to dig into our entrees. “Look at looky loo,” I said to my burger as I raised it to my stray dog butthole lips and took a big ole bite. “Oh man! I dig that. This rocks man. Get it goin’. That’s what I’m talking about. Winner winner hamburger dinner. You can taste the sweetness of the bun, and the crunchtastic pickle makes me tickle, and the tomato comes through like the national fruit of Flavor Town, and this thing just makes me get down, brother.”

In short, it tasted just like a hamburger, but I need to describe all the various components that make up a hamburger using colorful analogies, alliteration, rhymes, and all manner of blather for about ten minutes or so. When I was finished, I held up my jewel encrusted fist—I don’t wear any gay jewelry or anything, it’s like really cool dude jewelry that’s got skulls and shit on it, grrrrr—and offered it to anyone who happened to be nearby. Getting knuckles from me, after all, is the Quadruple-D equivalent of a Michelin Star.

Quadruple D? Did I not mention it earlier? The newsboys are on the street corners all over Flavor Town yelling the news: I’m starting my own  TV show and it’s going to be called “Douchebags, Ding Dongs, and Dipshits.” It’s going to be off the hook.