I like Ruby’s. It’s a fun place to visit. Clean, bright, reminiscent of the days of yesteryear. A time when a cute teen waitress in a cute short skirt could be sexually harassed by her employer without anyone saying boo about it. And the food’s really tasty too. I’m a sucker for 1950s themed diners anyway. Love ’em. Can’t get enough of ’em.
Ruby’s has always struck me as America’s consolation prize for living way out in the middle of nowhere. If you’re in the BFEs there’s probably a Ruby’s there. It’s like America said, “Well my friend, you live way the fuck out here, and we can tell that you’re trying to put on a sort of cosmopolitan air. You’re not quite a ghost town; You have enough residents to warrant a Starbucks and a Target. We can’t give you any of the really schwanky stuff like Macy’s or Bloomingdale’s or Spago, but we still want you to be a part of American culture, so here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna first send you a Quiznos. If you’re really good and you do right by the people at Quiznos, then we’ll give you a Ruby’s Diner. But you have to be really good and not cause any trouble. Deal?”
Sounds like a deal to me. Whenever I’m driving through your bumfuck tract-home insta-village I’ll always make it a point to stop in your consolation restaurant for some curly fries and a side of ranch. Mmm, those skirts are cute!
[c] 2009 Russ of America
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