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Site founder Part-time Ninja unleashes the fury on the latest American import to wash up on the shores of this grey and rainy little country we call the UK...

I like dead meat. It tastes good, keeps me alive, and pisses off militant vegetarians in one deft stroke. There’s something about being served a slice of dead cow the size of a sports utility vehicle that makes the primal caveman within growl in vulgar satisfaction. Yes ladies, it may just seem like a torn bloody mess with a fork in it to you, but to us guys it’s a rampant war cry to our manly desires to maim, smash and kill. This isn’t a meal, this is a portal back to a supposed golden age of masculinity where big, hairy men wandered around prehistoric landscapes, grunting, sweating, swearing, fighting, fucking, and occasionally taking the time to beat a polar bear to death with a stick.

After countless hours every day locked inside little grey cubicles typing meaningless shit into a tiny beige computer, we men can kick back at the end of a week and bask in the glorious slaughter of a poor, defenceless animal, happy in the fact that our wanton love for bloodlust has been fulfilled. Bollocks to this white collar horse shit – us guys were designed to be headbutting a t-rex in the face, not filling out tax returns.

For me, when it comes to gorging on the slain flesh of dead animals, nothing beats a thick wedge of prime steak that’s bloody as hell. I like my steak so rare that when I stick my fork into it, I’m expecting it to moo. A good steak, in my book, should be so rare that a decent surgeon could put it back together again and have it chewing cud within the hour. Anything less is for failures. Many people like their meat well done. Screw that – a real steak should look like a bit of an animal; not something that fell out of one.

Coctails always taste better when served by a growling, constipated kamikaze psychopath?

It was a similar hunger for torn up strips of murdered flesh that brought me to TGI Friday’s not so long since. I’ve heard great stories about their ribs – Herculean tales which would shake the stomach of even the most hardened flesh-chewer. From what I’d heard, TGI Friday’s was like some golden, mythical shrine to grilled meats, where entire ribcages were served to hungry souls just waiting for their fill. This I’d heard was a glorious land, heavenly in its desire to fill the stomachs of the deserving masses with portions of beef the size of Poland. From what I’d heard, this was a place where the ribs were to die for, complete with a Jack Daniels sauce that would separate the men from the boys and fill one’s soul with a volcanic surge that would rock you to your very core.

Admittedly such macho descriptions had me a little worried, perhaps fearing my cheeseburger would come with a side portion of baby oil, masculine grunting and generous portions of anal rape. But what the hell, I thought. Who the fuck am I to say no to a meal? And they have beer on tap too, which is always fun. So it was with great trepidation that I found myself in my local TGI Friday’s, ready for grub with a rumbling belly and high expectations. Maybe it was because I’d turned up to a ‘restaurant’ called ‘Friday’s’ on a Saturday that the Gods decided to smite me. Perhaps I’m just a gullible Limey bastard. Whatever the cause, I damn near left that place feeling like I’d been kicked in the nuts by a squadron of angry midgets. (And yes, I really DO know what that feels like...)

Now don’t get me wrong, America has brought us some great things: Bruce Willis in a vest shooting Germans, for instance. You Yanks were also kind enough to introduce us to the kind of ridiculously, violently loud heavy metal that makes children cry, and we thank you for that. Hell, you even gave us a president that the whole family can laugh at. What baffles me however is this: Which socially redundant sociopath decided that what modern suburban families want to do on a night out is be crammed into a large room that smells faintly of farts, piss, stale beer and Belgian peasants?


Oh, and who the fuck decided that Aerosmith should be allowed to continue living, let alone have their hair-metal bullshit pumped through the speakers so loud that God Himself wets Himself with laughter at this so-called ‘music?!’
I can just imagine the meeting now:

Soul-less corporate lackey: Sir, what we need to do is understand our customers – their needs, their desires, their tastes – and then completely ignore these things in favour of a commercialized plastic image which does to taste what vaginal thrush does for moods.

Megalomaniac corporate mastermind: Yes. The people want culture and social enrichment. Instead, we shall give them Aerosmith.

Soul-less corporate lackey: Yes, Aerosmith can crush even the most determined of spirits. Why, after half an hour of recycled 1980’s crap, they’ll be begging for mercy! They’ll be putty in our hands. Then we can really go to work on them.

Megalomaniac corporate mastermind: Yes! They’ll be too busy praying to God to stop the endless suffering to think twice about our prices, or the fact that they asked for steak and we served them Boiled Ass instead! Heck, we could even put a picture of Steve Adler’s balls right there on the menu! I don’t know why that’d be a good idea, but the thought gets me so excited my buttocks tingle!

Soul-less corporate lackey: And hey – if we play the music loud enough we could control them further. You remember hearing on the news how those boffins in the military used Enter Sandman by Metallica to torture terror suspects with? Well Aerosmith are twice as bad! Play that shit loud enough they’ll lose the will to live. Basic concepts like money, time and reality will all be zapped from their numb and suffering minds! If we play it loud enough, the vibrations could even make their stomach linings turn to ash – they’ll be too busy bleeding out their assholes to realise how bad the food is!

(Don’t get me wrong though. Their Jack Daniels sauce rocks.)

I think you’re starting to see where I’m headed with this. Stats for this website claim that 68.37% of you reading this are American – if that’s the case then you may well have survived TGI Friday’s yourself. If that is so then I salute you, as survival of such an encounter requires balls so big they’d put King Kong to shame. An evening out at TGI’s rivals Gulf War Syndrome in terms of the emotional impact it can inflict.

Hell, while we’re on the subject I’m sure they use Agent Orange as relish on their burgers. Whatever the hell that shit is they use, it sure as shit isn’t Ketchup.

The poor bastard across from me ordered a cheeseburger and got what looked like fresh tampon juice squirted all over his bun. After eating it, he still smiles on the outside – but everyone knows he’s dead inside. Such is the impact this place can have on you.

While the food looks good to the untrained eye, you must bear in mind that the evil geniuses at TGI have invented a liquid weapon that somehow finds a way to rape the very fabric of your soul. After leaving that place, the poor bastard had somehow grown hair on the inside of his lungs. To this date, medical science cannot explain why.


Don’t misinterpret me on this though – as I say the Jack Daniels sauce is the stuff of dreams.
I’d kick an old man down a flight of stairs just to get another taste of this stuff, which may as well be liquid crack with a Viagra aftertaste. It’s like the sauce the Pope would use at his dinner table. The ribs I ordered came laced with the stuff – and therein lies the problem. That sauce is so good it could make galvanized rubber taste nice. They could shit on a plate, deep fat fry it and serve it up with fries and garnish. So long as it was smeared with this brown sauce of Heavenly wonderment you’d lap it down like a rabid, starving dog and then go crawling on your knees, bagging the haggared looking waitress for more. So that’s what I had. Hell, the sauce on those ribs is so nice I’m surprised people don’t eat the bones.

Orgasm-inducing sauces aside, however, I’m surprised we got served at all. You see, most places make the controversial choice of hiring human beings as their staff. At Planet TGI this isn’t the case – after all, human beings are expensive. They cost money and have to be fed, watered, brushed and occasionally shaved. And with all that money spent on the hired help, the suits behind the scenes could no longer indulge in their hobbies like wiping their shitty arses with thousand dollar bills.

I can sum up the quality of the staff with this one sentence – the waiters at TGI are only there because they failed the interview at MacDonald’s. TGI hire the freaks and sub-human residue that the other food joints would shudder in fear at the very prospect of employing. We’re talking about the most retarded, over-medicated, socially inept, Herpes-coated human rejects ever to walk the earth. Ex-cons, murderers, spotty bad-attitude students, unemployable obese social retards, the terrifyingly ugly, the people who have to wear diapers at the age of 30, and even The French are hired to walk the tiles at TGI. This wouldn’t be so bad if most people didn’t mind being served by a punch-drunk hairy ape in a ridiculous uniform with its flies open and stains on its face (which may very well be semen.) But people do mind. They’re here to eat. If they wanted this kind of horse shit they’d take their family to the circus instead.

TwistedEdge - sucking at drawing since 2006...

People don’t eat MacDonalds these days for fear that some despicable bastard might spit on their food. This is nothing.

At TGI it wouldn’t surprise me to hear about the kitchen staff wiping their asses with the bread before serving it up - and that creamy coloured stuff they put on your fries sure as dammit isn’t mayonnaise. And they smell of urine too (the staff – not the fries.)

This is probably because such complex operations like opening flies and aiming dick are beyond these freaks.

So Christ only knows how they’re expected to rustle up a decent Enchilada.

You can tell the staff at TGI have been lobotomized – there aren’t any scars but communicating with them is more strenuous than the Middle Eastern peace talks.

Pointing and gesturing at the menu like some kind of shaved, trained monkey doesn't work either. I tried that, and still bear the emotional scars.


You can tell as soon as you see them that talking to them will be about as much fun as having your balls worn down with a sanding wheel – the foreheads designed especially large to keep the rain off their shoes are a dead giveaway – often a telltale sign of those born with cauliflower cheese instead of a frontal lobe.

This monolithic lack of intelligence, combined with Steve Adler’s wheezing, constipated squeals and music so loud it melts the shit in your asshole means they can’t possibly tell what the fuck is going on. You ask for salad, they write down prawns. Ask for cheesecake and you get grilled shrimp. They really do just make any old shit up. Want the meat skewers? Expect garlic bread. You ask for soup, you get something that looks like liquid Cholera instead. It really is a guessing game – they can hear nothing.

Shit, I’m willing to bet you could ask them for a five year old Vietnamese prostitute, and they’d bring you the Cajun chicken with extra curly fries. It’s places like these that make me think there really are people walking the streets who’ve had their brains laminated. But don’t get me wrong – all of these mere inconveniences are instantly forgotten when you taste the Jack D sauce. I really do like that sauce. Remember that famous painting of the last supper? They were all smiling because Jesus serves Jack D sauce. Even crucifixion doesn’t seem so bad after this sauce. Even Judas liked it – he probably ratted on Jesus just so he could steal the rest of the bottle. So yeah, I’ve spent this article thus far ripping on the food and the staff. But what really finishes the night is all the damn noise. This, coming from a guy who listens to Fear Factory so loud his earphones melt, is quite something.

I don’t know how they do it, but the evil geniuses behind TGI have somehow devised a way to find the world’s noisiest children and have them placed in the mathematically proven most likely place where their soul-rapingly loud voices can be heard. It’s like they grab all the hyperactive kids, pour a gallon of sugar into their bloodstreams, then top it off by feeding them pure liquid adrenaline by the spoonful. Then they take them on a mind-altering, LSD-fuelled rollercoaster bungee jump safari trip, spin them round a few hundred times to make them extra dizzy, then unleash the gobby little brats on society.

I’ve seen monkeys in zoo cages that throw their own shit at each other that cause less violent destruction than these irritating little bastards. It’s terrible; they’re away from home… they’re unsupervised... they’re devastatingly loud… they’re bored… they’re hungry... You may as well have unleashed a hoarde of brain-eating zombies onto our midst. At least flesh-eating zombies are quiet. You could ignore a mutant cannibal zombie while you enjoy your steak. These little savages? Not a chance. And yet they don’t let you bring in guns, which is just plain mean! What’s worse is if I was to shoot one of these little gits in the face, maybe exterminate a few of them for the sake of sanity and mankind, I’D be the bad guy. There’s no justice in the world sometimes.

Isn't Photoshop fun?


Perhaps what irritated / amused me most of all, however, was the bizarre, tacky and mind-humpingly random array of weird Americana decoration / garbage they hang on the walls. Because nothing says ‘America’ more than an 8” x 10” of a balding cowboy murdering a bear with a machine gun. Or how about some old news clippings about the Chicago Fire that some poor n00b downloaded off the internet? Why not something truly American, like a drawing of Bill Gates taking a shit on the face of a poor person? Or the Pentagon nuking the living fuck out of some freaky-sounding country whose name we can barely pronounce? Maybe a photo of Rocky Balboa uppercutting the living shit out of the Queen? THAT’D SEND THE RIGHT MESSAGE.

I made a point of taking a look around the TGI Friday’s at what had to be the most garish collection of random crap ever assembled. It’s like someone went down into an American family basement, gathered up all the crap they couldn’t sell on eBay and nailed it to the wall. A Washington Redskins helmet with Mardi Gras flowers hanging from it? You betcha! A confederate flag? Fuck yeah! Oh, and nothing says ‘Viva Americana’ quite like a picture of Elvis Presley in a leather jumpsuit with an erection. Now THAT’S what I wanna have staring me in the face while I finish my starter! Thanks guys!

I could go on forever but I won’t. I will admit, however, that I had a great time at TGI Friday’s. Yes the food was suspect. Yes the staff resembled something that fell out of the arse of one of the simians on Planet of the Apes. Yes, the music was too damn loud and dominated by the kind of cheesy power metal that normally drives even the quietest of souls into rib-breakingly loud fits of hysterical laughter. And yes, there was an army of little brats there making enough noise to make me wish for a nationalized forced child labour system like they have in Taiwan. All of this would normally add up to a nauseating time. But it didn’t. Hell, I’d recommend TGI’s to anyone. Why? It’s that damn Jack Daniels sauce. I swear it’s better than snorting lines of coke off a hooker’s ass. And cheaper too. And in the big scheme of things, isn’t that what life’s really about?

Probably not... Could be worse I guess. While many may be horrified by some of the weird and wonderful things coming from the states, it could be worse...

Could be Canadian...

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Click here to go back to the home page Click here to see our foolish and drunken attempts at humour Click here to read our humiliation of the worst cinematic abortions the movie industry has to offer Click here to see some of the most bizarre news the web's ever puked out

Click here to see the barrage of other crap we have lying around