They paved paradise, and put up a parking lot. And a Red Robin. And a Buffalo Wild Wings. And some self-service frozen yogurt shop that will be closed in six to nine months. And a PetValu.
But most importantly, a Buffalo Wild Wings, or B Dubs, as it is lazily shortened (because fuck syllables). For some, this is much more of a paradise than the empty field full of snakes and broken bottles (and at one time, deer probably, who are now displaced and confused and inevitably roadkill) it replaced. For me, it was a step just below adequate until the diarrhea kicked in later that evening and lasted most of the day Sunday and I contemplated arson. I don't understand how we as humans choose convenience over intestinal discomfort more often than not. I suppose it's easy to choose the path of excess when it's paved with five thousand times the recommended daily allowance of sodium. Wash it all down with a beer to forget that you're in the suburbs, then yes, it is paradise; a temporary vacation where you're given a "Guest Experience Captain" who will bring you unlimited samples of B Dubs' signature sauces and/or anything on draft (may I please have 100 samples of Miller Lite?).
The disappointing truth is that while you're dying to go there (whether ironically or not), the reason you want do is because of their endless commercials and the fact that it's more socially acceptable than Hooters. Aside from the glut of TVs in the place, it's no different than any other chain.
Although I wasn't happy paying $60 for 48 hours' worth of intestinal discomfort, there's a 100% chance I'll go again because I hate myself. Plus, I didn't get my nifty cardboard hat this time, so they owe me that (I may also try out the unlimited beer sample scheme). If you can avoid being swayed by their marketing and that stupid winged buffalo logo, you're a better person than I. If not, stick to mozzarella sticks if you get suckered into going. Buen provecho.
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