Hi, sir! I’m the manager here at Fatty Matty’s. Thank you so much for stopping by with your family tonight.
I hate to interrupt, but our server, Kyle, said you ordered the raw meat sandwich? Great. I wanted to let you know that your meal is on its way but in the meantime, would you mind signing this disclaimer?
All it basically says is that, according to a law recently enacted in the great state of South Dakota, we at Fatty Matty’s Quakin’ Baconz do not assume liability for any health complications and/or death that may arise from the “DOIN’ IT RAWWWW” special. Yes, ma’am, company policy says I have to yell every time I say it. The rock music on my phone is just something I like to do.
Now, for you sir, we’ll need your signature there and there, with your social security number there and the date of your last prostate exam on… lemme see… page 16. You might recognize the language as being the same that Outback Steakhouse uses to avoid accidental homicide lawsuits for the Bloomin’ Onion.
What’s that ma’am? Yes, your husband seems like a man who knows what they want! It certainly takes courage to sink those chompers into 0.75 pounds of fresh, unwashed cowhide. Especially when you order the onions “super-duper raw,” like he so kindly asked Kyle to double underline on his order. Yes sir, we can also be sure that the sandwich is with rye bread. You should know that this pink ooze will flush out everything you’ll taste tonight or really for the next month, but if it’s rye you want, it’s rye you’ll get. Page 24 clearly says that you can customize your meal however you’d like, as long as the beef doesn’t come within three miles of a griddle.
Hm? Sure, I guess you could say it’s a family recipe. My cousin Greg threw it together after we got sloshed on expired PBRs during New Year's Eve. We tried to make each other burgers, but forgot our grill was seized by the IRS a few weeks ago. So, we just scraped up some buns, slapped a few paddies on em’ (his frozen, mine thawed, of course), dolled it up with some condiments, and munched the night away, praying our bowels would make it to sunrise. Normally I’d be hesitant about these experimental recipes, but Greg’s got a spot-on instinct—he’s the one who came up with our famous “Supreme Unleavened Meatloaf.”
So you have nothing to worry about, sir. On page 36, you’ll see that we guarantee you’re getting the rarest, most undercooked sandwich in all of Sturgis. The only way this could be more fresh would be if the cow was still moving, which I pray for risk of losing this entire family business and my children’s college savings, it’s not.
Ah, ok, I see you’re onto the Rorschach test. This section usually takes a while, but that’s ok because your meal is gonna be another 45 minutes—at least that’s how long it took the ambulances to reach our parking lot to be on standby the other week. More like last responders, amiright?
For everyone else, just talk amongst yourselves and don’t mind me wrapping this heart monitor around your father’s arm. You can also ignore the tripod and camera set up next to your booth. The footage looks better if you don’t know you’re being recorded. Don’t worry, ol’ Mark here just signed off on all of this about 58 pages ago.
If you must know, this is all because the week after we unleashed the “DOIN’ IT RAWWW,” we got a call from the FBI asking us for “data” on some “study” about “the human ability to be sustained on raw meat.” Apparently what your father is about to stuff his face with was a common recipe that nomadic hominidae nourished themselves with before fire was invented. They used to eat this stuff while hunting Muskox in the nude! If your Dad surviv– er, uh, enjoys the meal, then we might have cracked a new frontier in understanding how the digestive system operates under what Agent Clarkson told me were “barbaric” conditions. Great news if nuclear war strips us of all sources of heat from the world!
I know you’re a ways away, but on the last page you’ll read about something called “memory erasure” That’ll be necessary for the whole family tonight because what I’ve just told you can technically only be known by folks with level 5 government clearance. Think of it like blacking out from a night of copious drinking, except instead of taking shots from Shelby, our bartender, you’re getting the same drug-induced amnesia that veterans with PTSD receive from a trained government psychotherapist.
No, I don’t think we have anything to worry about– why do you ask? Sir, your family has a lot of questions. For someone about to ingest uncooked beef, are you sure these are your kids? Well, no matter. Right now you have bigger things to worry about, and it comes on a see-through paper plate with two napkins and an extra-large RC Cola!
As for your server, it looks like that’s me now. Kyle just texted saying he “quit” because of the “crippling moral convictions” of knowing “dangerous government secrets.” For now, you just focus on cranking out those last 120 pages, and I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.
Just ask for Agent– er– uh– Chef Thompson and I’ll be right out.