Dear Olive Garden,
Yes, yes, I know you don't need an introduction. You're America’s favorite Italian chain. You have those oh so painfully cheery commercials that beckon to those who can't resist your fifteen new pasta dishes and the ever so important unlimited bread-sticks. Look, I'm not going to sugar-coat it. I hate you. My very first memory of the few times I've walked into your doors was vomiting. Not even a second of exposure to the putrid garlic gases that poured from your kitchen sent me to the bathroom to vomit under a stone portrait of Julius Caesar. Caesar was important here, it was in a way some historical context. It was your way of saying “hey, while you’re blowing chunks here, can't you just feel the contrast of how pitiful you are compared to this famous conqueror? Not to mention the Romans invented plumbing as we know it too, isn't that neat?” because the least you could do was help me understand the Roman Empire laid down the foundation for my entire shitty experience. Once I leaped the initial hurdle, our relationship didn't improve. Surrounded by enough Parmesan cheese to send a bus full of lactose intolerant kids to the emergency room, your bread-sticks and “Italian atmosphere” didn't help at all. You're a loud, obnoxious blight lingering by the mall like well-seasoned road-kill. I'd ask you to get out of town, take a hike, leave us in peace free from your egregious abuse of the tomato, but I realize this town is big enough for the both of us. That's much more respect than you've shown me, that's for certain.
Sincerely,
Nathan Retherford
