Jeff, Everything in this Olive Garden is a Metaphor for Our Relationship
Jeff,
I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve asked you to meet me at the Olive Garden this evening. No, it’s not a date. Far from it, in fact. Jeff, I need you to take a good look around. And don’t just look at the plethora of items in this faux-Italian casual dining restaurant establishment. I want you to see what the items represent. Still not getting it? Well like a $4.99 white cloth napkin, I’ll lay it out for you:
Everything in this Olive Garden is a metaphor for our relationship.
Still not convinced? Let’s break it down like a warm, crusty breadstick:
The “Tuscan” architecture. Though we appear to be sturdy and made with only the strongest of materials, this false veneer only covers up an unstable and asbestos-lined interior.
The waiter grating our parmesan cheese. If my salad is my patience, you are the waiter, and the cheese is your constant need for validation, then I’m afraid it’s time for me to say “when.”
The unlimited breadsticks. The phallus of the breadsticks is clear symbolism for your toxic masculinity, which similarly comes in an endless amount. But breadsticks are only 380 calories per serving. How many calories are in a serving of your bullshit, Jeff? Food for thought.
The pasta bolognese. The pasta is my independence, the tomato sauce are your friends, the garlic is my career, and the brisket is your white male privilege. Need I say any more?
The Outback Steakhouse across the street. I’m fucking the head manager at Outback Steakhouse. His name is Trevor, he has an accent, and he really puts my shrimp on the barbie, if you catch my drift.
The couple breaking up at the corner table. That’s actually just us. Not much of a metaphor, but still. Thought I should mention it.
The slogan “When you’re here you’re with family.” If by “you’re here,” you mean “I’m in this relationship,” and by “with family” you mean “secretly unhappy,” then yes, I suppose “When you’re here you’re with family.”
The tiramisu. Disgusting. I wish I had ordered a lava cake instead.
The lava cake. The lava cake is Trevor.
This salad with too many tomatoes. Tomatoes aren’t good, Jeff. They just aren’t.
The chicken parmigiana. I never loved you, or these breaded chicken breasts.
The risotto bites. You make me sick.
The check. Well, look’s like we’re at the end of the meal. Here’s the check, just like how you didn’t “check” to see if I was ok after my pet snake died. I’d like my pasta bolognese boxed up please, just like you “boxed” me in creatively. And you’re paying, just like I “paid” for my decision to ever go on that first Tinder date with you. No, I don’t need a ride home, I’m getting lobster bites with Trevor after his shift. And you can keep the Andes mints. My relationship with you may be a series of regrets, but this meal at Olive Garden is the one that will haunt me most of all.
Ciao!
