The Stomach Warriors

and

The Battle of the Endless Shrimp

Samuel and I are warriors lured by the double doors

Gilded with wood, glass, and faux copper handles,

Those goddamn gates of destiny,

Are the very same doors that mark the entrance

of Red Lobster.

Many such warriors have heard the sirens calling

We pass fallen comrades as they rub their

swollen bellies

On the way out the goddamn gates of destiny,

Shaking their heads while

reeking of failure and shrimp scampi.

Once inside the darkened corridors of the mysterious

Red Lobster

We are led to the table by one of the many resident wenches,

Feeling confident in our stride,

Samuel and I prepare ourselves mentally for the

Mountains of endless shrimp that we must endure to become

champions of the world.

We order quickly and efficiently,

Choosing our sides carefully as Samuel goes for the

            caesar salad

And I go for the

            coleslaw.

We only allow ourselves to eat one of those famed

salty-ass cheese biscuits,

Pushing the salad aside in order to

focus on the true task at hand.

Slowly the plates arrive with a warning,

“Please be careful as the plates are quite hot.

We wish for your meal to be enjoyed,

But want for your fingers burned we do not.

To be sued,

Would be quite the tragedy on such

a fine day.”

The wench departs in a flourish,

Leaving us to our wretched demise,

Shrimp soaking in garlic butter

Nesting sweetly with french fries.

We eat quickly and order more,

But we also realize we have bitten off much more

            than we can chew

The shrimp, while bountiful and plenty,

Have been stewing and frying in gallons of oil.

We gasp and finish another round,

Only to realize that the oil catches up to us quickly,

The gastronomic delight soon waning

To the disappointment of our embattled stomachs

And the relief of our cringing arteries.

Samuel and I pay off the check bitterly,

The wench seeing defeat in our eyes

Lets us have our soft drinks

For half price.

As we stroll back out into the wicked light of day,

Samuel says,

“I don’t feel quite full,

But I don’t feel quite well, either.”

“Samuel,” I say.  “That was a bad idea.

Let us never speak of this miserable failure

again.”

And as we get into the car we automatically

roll down the windows

Because every war we fight with our stomachs

Comes with collateral damage,

So we brace our noses for the long

And stinky car ride

Of bitter defeat.