Restaurant Review: The Outback Steakhouse

Real Aussies wear khaki

Mark drank 40 of these huge beers

G’Day Mate! Hilah here. A few weeks back, we were lucky enough to be invited by our friends Laurel and Paul to share in Laurel’s Christmas present from her boss: a gift certificate to THE OUTBACK STEAKHOUSE. How could we say no? We LOVE trying new restaurants, especially steak ones. We got dudded up in our finest Urban Outback apparel and were on our way. The teenaged hostesses were very impressed when we told them we were from Melbourne. They were giggling all the way to the booth in the far corner that they seated us in. We started out with some Foster’s of course, and a Bloomin’ Onion. We all practiced our Australian accents when we ordered. Our waitress loved it! We got steaks that were so delicious we didn’t even need steak sauce, although I did slip the bottle into my purse. I also took my silverware set and Mark’s spoon. I would have taken his knife and fork, too, but my purse was filled up with the napkin dispenser. What can I say? I love souvenirs! I highly recommend this restaurant to anyone who loves steaks, Australia, or free condiment caddies.

Paul didn't eat that green stuff. I can't blame him.

Where's the steak sauce? Oh, yeah. I remember now.

Just being ‘D’ is a full time job, ya’llz.

Wassup ya’ll?  ‘D’ here.  Just livin the dream, yo, if by dream you mean a f***in nightmare I can’t wake up from!  I’m not gonna lie, things have been rough lately.

I lost my job at Netflix.  Yeah I know, ‘D’, workin at Netflix?  You’re like, “What, you carry a briefcase and have keys to the executive washingroom?  That aint the ‘D’ I know”"  Well, you’re right.  I wasn’t the ‘D’ I know either.  It was just the ‘D’ I was trying to be  so my f***in girlfriend would get off my back about groceries and bills and stuff.   They waited till Friday at 5 to do it, too…suckers.  They said it was because my remote control cars were becoming a ‘nuisance’ and coworkers were complaining.  I said,  “Whatevs, I run em on smokebreaks in the parking garage, and everybody like em.”  Apparently not.  Screw that stanky place.  That aint ‘D’ anyway, plus ‘D’ already got a job.  Being ‘D’.  It’s full time, ya’llz.  Man!  That’s good.  I wish I would have thought of that line when Mr. Thomas was firing me.  That’ s always the way with me.  I count my chickens, then those muthaf****s hatch.

See.  There’s my empty cubicle.  Kind of sad.  Ah, yeah..just remembering my boy Dennis..he sat on the other side of that cubicle and every morning when I got in, he’d slolwy raise his head up and say wassup to me.  He’d always be eating yogurt or something and he was missing a finger.  He had two kids in boyscouts and he was their den leader.  He drove a stupidass minivan which I thought was pretty square, but he liked Ludacris and he tried to wear hair gel once.  He would say things like, “‘D’, you watch Lost last night?  Man alive, am I the one that’s lost.”  And I would say, “Dennis, screw that muthaf***n show.”  We were kind of tight.

Called him D2.  I miss him.  But like I said, I got a job–’D’ style.  This weekend I DJ’d an Outback Steakhouse employee Easter party at a Steak and Ale, and there was a free buffet for the talent.  It was cool; I played a lot of  reaggae as requested, and my girlfriend was pretty f****in impressed, until I dropped the bomb on her.  Man.  And It was worse, too, cause for the last week I had been pretending to go to work, showering, leaving early, but I would just go hang out with my friend Dotman at the Roomstore where he works.  She tossed a f***in baked potato at me!  Fully loaded!  We broke up later on in the parking lot.  I made her give me back my Netflix.  That’s seems to be the way things have just worked out for me lately–with ladies–with the world.  She clocked out on me.  But I’m stuck with this job.  It’s the occupation of being ‘D’.  It’s full time.  So what do you do?  Go back to Netflix?  Beg Mr. Thomas for my job back?  Leave my remote control cars at home?

A’ight.