The Outback is a steakhouse is a meeting place is a mecca for all that is fine and well with the world. The Outback Steakhouse will make your soul complete and you will dominate every room you enter in the Outback Steakhouse because you are the self appointed Outback Steakhouse King and you shall receive a crown of onion and a scepter of breadstick and you shall rule the hall of delicious meat.
Who doesn’t like The Outback? Most likely thieves and ne’er-do-wells, I reckon. One time, I saw a boy enter an Outback Steakhouse and he left a man — THE SAME DAY. I about jumped on my cap I was so flummoxed. The doors are made of the most solid oak money can buy and the beers are poured from the teats of angels, brought to you in goblets kept clean by the breath of a chanteuse, and brought to you by a cloud of baby laughter that arrives at your table. The cloud of baby laughter shall be your server and shall next bring you delicious bread made fresh especially for you by our bread artisans who toil day and night studying your star charts for just the right bread for your own self, dear reader. Furthermore the knife they give to you to cut the bread has been used in a ritual sacrifice!
But wait! There’s more. Order a ‘Wallaby Darned’ and wash your fears away with over 11 different kinds of alcohol. Next, order a ‘Blooming Onion’ — which could feed a family of four for TWO STRAIGHT DAYS although YOU will have one MERELY AS AN APPETIZER. It shall sit in your stomach like a dethroned king, heavy is the head that wears the crown et cetera. And then, good Sir, you shall have a fucking STEAK.
No. Fuck every other steak you’ve ever read about, eaten, or heard in passing conversation. This is more than a steak: it is a way of life. Remember the first time you heard The Beatles, or looked into your lovers eyes? This experience shall be like that ONLY BETTER — for you shall be able to eat this experience. With Lindburg-esque gusto you shall throw yourself upon this pile of sizzling meat like a feral child raised by wolverines and Liberals and you shall also smoke ten unfiltered cigarettes back to back in a plume of nicotine and fatty meat that shall incant the spirit of the late Orson Welles. Once Orson appears before you he shall ask you three questions: two of which can only be answered in other questions, the last shall be plucked at random from a recent back copy of Entertainment Weekly. “WHO IS HEATH LEDGER’S CHILD” shall bellow the ghastly paranormal visage of the late Orson Welles, or “WHAT EIGHTIES STARLET IS MARRIED TO KEVIN KLINE.” You shall know the right answer for you have been preparing for this for many years, your eyes blood red with knowledge, meat, and Fosters (Australian for Beer). Orson shall give you a magic hat upon receiving the right answer and shall disappear into a cloud of spice and cinnabun-smell and you shall be left alone in an empty Outback steakhouse. Was it all a dream?
No. It was The Outback.