Entry #10: The Road That Leads to Nowhere...

Hello E-World.

  As you gently push open the trendy yet outdated western saloon doors, you hear the soft cooing of country-western music among with the hushed voices of other patrons. All around you can see mid-western decorations from tumbleweed to a mounted stuffed bull head lovingly hung on the wall for all to see. The distinct yet faint crunch of shells is heard underfoot as a middle-aged blond waitress leads you to your own personal eating stall. "Here you are, darlin'" she says in a distinctly southern drawl as she motions for you to sit.

  No. You're not in a 19th century saloon. There will be no shoot out. No bar-room brawls. No stagecoach robberies. And no, Sheriff Dillon isn't standing in the corner talking to Miss Kitty either.

You're in Texas Roadhouse.

  If you ever happen to find yourself in one of these low-down, no-good cesspits, I suggest you skedaddle outta town before they hog-tie you up and call you princess. Not only is this place one of the worst eating establishments in all of food chain history, but it represents all the worst ideas ever created combined into a posse so ugly, even the ugliest bar-maid would think twice about going out on a date with any of them.

  In attempt to round up these ugly varmit, I've compiled my own Most Wanted List:

WANTED: The Peanut Shells.

 These organic spent cartridges aren't anywhere near as authentic or cool as real bullet shells. Strewn across the entire floor in this saloon is a nightmarish biodegradable wasteland. Why isn't the FDA wrangling up the suspects? I mean, do we throw banana peels on the floor in our household after we're done feeding our fat faces? Unless you're disgusting beyond all reason, the answer should be no (and if it isn't, then by all means you're excused). So why then is it ok to do that at a public eating establishment? Also I'd like to point out that apparently in Texas there's no such thing as a peanut allergy. And heaven help you if you have one, because if you even decided to visit one of these waterholes, you'd be deader than a paraplegic caught in a gunfight.

WANTED: Birthday Celebrations.

  Pray to heaven above that it's not your birthday at Texas Roadhouse. Unless you like to be ripped out of your seat, sat down on a "authentic genuine leather" horse saddle, blinded with a giant spotlight leaving very little doubt in anyone's mind who's birthday it is, then have happy birthday screamed at you by employees and emboozened (it's a word I made up) patrons then this isn't the place to celebrate your annual.

WANTED: Country Music.

  Not that I have anything against Country Music in general, but there's a limit to many times I can listen to "My Achy Breaky Heart" by Billy Ray Cyrus before I start a full out bar room brawl. The twangy half  musical melody is supposed to compliment the already dismal establishment, however it's more annoying than mining fool's gold. They might as well have just set up a honky-tonk in the corner of the room and played "The Entertainer" 4 billion times until everyone rioted and burned the place to the ground. At least then we could have said we enjoyed ourselves.

WANTED: Western Decor.

Somehow I'm supposed to be convinced by the wood paneling, fake paintings of the wild west, and Indian headdresses that I'm in a Texas saloon a century ago. Well, to put it bluntly, I'm not. Something tells me that AC cooling vents weren't in style back then, nor did the waitress wear sneakers and call you "hon". Nor did you get a slab of beef with mashed potatoes on the side. Nothing says fake, cheap decor like an unused dartboard in the corner of a restaurant.

Among all the restaurants in the U.S.A, I have no shame in calling the Texas Roadhouse the worst eatery the West ever offered to the world. And rest assured E-World, you're more likely to see the elusive mythical Chupacabra than see me in one of these Western nightmares.