Kebab Night in America
A Nation Decides
You and 50 others have just been kicked out of the bar, spilling onto the sidewalk in front of a kebab shop and a burger joint.
It’s late. You’re drunk, and you’re hungry.
There’s an old man standing outside the kebab shop dressed like a wrap with meat, his brownish orange head, sticking out the top like a loose piece of chicken. He’s yelling at the crowd to drum up business.
“Let me tell you something, I know kebabs—I’ve had a lot of kebabs—and these are beautiful. Frankly, I’d say they are the best in history. The best.”
Next door is the burger joint. You’ve been going there for years. It’s fine, clean and respectable. But a guy at the bar said that he heard that there are rats in the kitchen, and they might even be serving mystery meats. “Cats and dogs,” he whispered.
That sounds crazy, but you’re bored with burgers anyways. You don’t feel like a burger made with love and filled with joy, like it says on their signs, and the fact that it’s ladies night is not enough to entice you. The rotating legs of meat inside the kebab shop smell GOOD after four hours in the bar and three pitchers of beer, and the old kebab man is kinda funny.
“Ladies,” he croons after a few females quietly go next door to get some burgers, “those burger people, you think they have what you need over there? They don’t. It’s over here. I INVENTED ladies night. We’re going to have the greatest night over here, with free extra meat for all the ladies. And I’ll give it to them whether they like it or not,” he says with a smirk. The bar crowd hoots and starts to get rowdy.
You notice that one of the windows of the kebab shop is cracked - is that a bullet hole? - and the old man seems to be getting grumpy as the crowd in front begins to thin out a bit as a few more people trickle next door.
“The burger place, it’s garbage.” he yells. “And the people who run it are terrible people.”
A blond woman sees you standing there and approaches. You think she might work for the kebab place, but the way she looks she could just as easily be a crazy street person.
“You’re not thinking about having a burger, are you? Let me tell you something,” her voice lowers to a whisper. “No one actually likes the burgers—don’t be fooled by all the people inside. They’re all actors, paid for by George Soros. And the owners are satan-worshipping pedophiles.”
You laugh, thinking that you probably shouldn’t have smoked that bowl before going to the bar. It’s time for a kebab, maybe it will help straighten out your head. You push your way through the crowd and in the door.
You’re standing in line and hear the person in front of you ask if the meats are Halal. The guy behind the counter points to a sign on the wall that says “Our meats are 100% AMERICAN” over a picture of an eagle and an American flag.
It’s your turn. You step up and order a mixed kebab, garlic and chilli sauce.
The guy at the cash register stares at you and takes a long pause.
"We don’t do mixed kebabs. Mixing meats creates an existential crisis, one where we question the meaning of existing as singular beings. If that’s a dealbreaker for you and you’re thinking of grabbing a burger instead, well… that’s on you. Honestly, you can go fuck yourself.”
That’s a bit harsh, you think, and quickly order lamb instead, then head outside to sit on the curb to eat. The first few bites are good, delicious and greasy. Perfect to soak up the booze.
Then you realize it didn’t taste like lamb. What’s this - chicken? You ordered lamb. And where’s the garlic sauce? There’s no sign of it. You didn’t get what you ordered.
A few more bites. The kebab is starting to get to you, more greasy than delicious. And then half the pita falls apart and dumps down your shirt, and you’ve now got a big sloppy mess in your lap. Clearly the guys inside have never made a kebab before, for it to fall apart like that.
Disappointed, you finish what you can, then stumble home and fall into bed.
You awake the next morning and your brain is like oatmeal, your gut gurgling. You vaguely remember getting a kebab, and a bunch of weird stuff happening. Did one of the kebab shop guys really say that the lamb came from a dead animal he found on the side of the road when he was drunk?
The internet is divided on the kebab shop, you find from reviews that range from fanatical 5-stars — “That chicken kebab was like a divine appointment”— to a slew of angry 1-stars, with nothing in between.
“I can’t believe people would eat at this place.”
“Should have listened to the other terrible reviews.”
“I ordered lamb and they gave me something else. Same with my friend… WTF?”
The kebab shop replied to this comment with “Your kebab, our choice.”
“Took revenge on me the next day. Was on the can for an hour.” The way you’re starting to feel, you think you might be on the toilet for longer than that.
You fast shuffle to the bathroom, vowing to never get a drunk kebab again.