Paul Parillo Licks Sucks Dicks

I walked into the Licks restaurant with an insatiable hunger for all things “malt shop”. I hadn’t been since I was a child, but still reserved a formidable reservoir of nostalgic bliss. One was always guaranteed a unique experience; immediately your senses were conquered by the uppity vocal harmonies sung by the overly happy employees – it seemed as though a tangible energy could be grasped out of the air. Even your individual food order was treated with such joyful acceptance, the food somehow tasted better. Those truly were, fond memories.  

I had only taken a couple steps inside when the hunger I felt was stunted by the confusion of what lay before me. Every light-bulb appeared weakened and let off an annoying dimness that forced my eyes to squint. I couldn’t make out the smells coming from the kitchen, but I was certain it wasn’t a meat I’ve ever had, and as if to add more pain to my misery, the sounds of malt shop tunes had apparently been evaporated and replaced by a top 40 radio station. Within 10 steps upon entering the Licks Restaurant, it was clear that someone with a profoundly large metaphorical penis had gone and raped an innocent and once enjoyable franchise.

For completely educational reasons, I proceeded to order a meal and allow the research of eating to help substantiate my opinions through empirical evidence. As I watched the cook (who not only had to confer with his laminated meat cooking instructions, also barely wore the traditional uniform) begin most likely to overcook my wrap, I took secretive glances about the place. Old, oxygenized fruit lay helpless and unappetizing on a melting bed of ice water (all of which was behind the display glass). A child, probably belonging to the owners) was running around in front and behind the counter sneezing and grabbing anything in his path.

But what was most unsatisfying, was the lack of vibrancy coming from the two employees. Meal orders were grunted to one another, and it was no surprise the cook had to constantly grunt back for order repetition. I suppose I too would only feel like grunting when I sunk my life savings into a project that sucked the life out of everything – including the restaurant itself. And such bravado and falsehoods couldn’t be unnoticed when every wall of the restaurant was littered with awards, framed newspaper headlines and other various levels of merit that denoted the quality and brilliance of the establishment. The only problem here was they were all earned before the franchise was bought out. How dare you lie to your customers!

I suppose I don’t need to mention how appalling my meal was – suffice it to say, this particular Licks is a sick abortion to the cherished memories I was once had. In conclusion, go fuck yourself Licks. Thanks for selling out.

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