The Restaurant Review

I am a restaurant critic, about to sample the finest cuisine of the three countries North America, the USA, and greater Yankee-land. I pack a suitcase full of clean forks for the journey, and, after calibrating my nose, I clamber into the towering cockpit of my 50-foot-tall compact robotic dinosaur (patent pending). It's time to set out.

One of the most important parts of restaurant criticism is getting to the restaurant, and for that the road system is essential, especially if you plan on getting there by motorized sofa.

The first restaurant on my list is the Vaguely Nautical Diner. This is a restaurant whose investments have been leveraged out to the staggering ratio of 100,000 to one, so that a single particle of dust settling would cause the entire economy of the South to disappear beneath the waves. I patronize this restaurant wearing a glasses-and-moustache disguise so as not to arouse suspicion. The place is curiously fishless and all I can get is a plate of singing shellfish. I assign this restaurant a rating of Worse Than Better.

Next on my list is the Wouldn't You Aver Greek restaurant located in the eastern end of Southhampton. This restaurant is owned by a man who, after decades of crippling anxiety and delusions of persecution, resolved to amputate the organ that was causing all the trouble. By chance, he is going through with his plan on the bar counter the same day I drop in. This restaurant serves precarious towers of food. This restaurant is also diversifying, engaging in a heroic effort to build an entire apartment complex from some of its harder breadsticks. I leave the restaurant satiated, about one hour before I arrived because of the International Date Line.

The last restaurant I have to visit happens to be located in a pocket dimension. Technically this pocket dimension can only be entered and not exited, but time runs backwards inside the restaurant, making it possible to send a message back in time and remember you don't want to go there. According to my recollection, the food there would have been more drywall-laden than I would have been happy with.

Fatigued from my exhaustive tour of all restaurants, I am pretty much sick of the whole concept of eating. I decide to stop being a restaurant critic and move to one of the more vacant galaxies.