It’s All Here at Cracker Jack’s Old Country Tits ’N’ Wings Roadhouse
By: John Carstens
Tags: Short Story, Satire, Humor, Culture, Food

A great big taste of pure, saturated America.

What are you waiting for, you gutless ninny? Hike up your skirt and hurry on in to Cracker Jack’s Old Country Tits ’N’ Wings Roadhouse for a humongous heap of the finest grub this side of tarnation! Tonight is all-you-can-eat reaper pie, so open your maw and fill your yellow belly with a good ol’ backwoods bonfire. Whoa, Satan! To douse the flames, the spigot’s always open on the Keystone Ice firehose.

Tomorrow night is Family Night. There’s something for everyone, including VeggieTales sing-a-longs, dog fights, wet panty contests, Everclear in blinky cups and BYOF: Bring Your Own Fireworks. Lose a finger, win a rib!

Is that all? Is Obama a Christian? No, don’t be such a shit-for-brains! Cracker Jack’s got everything to engorge you from your forehead veins to the sores on your toes and every pore, follicle, organ, membrane and protuberance in between. That’s right, even the words are big in this hootenanny Shangri-La!

Sidle up to the world’s longest barnwood bar, crack open the world’s heaviest menu and cross your eyes at the world’s largest selection of methanol spirits. But wait, there’s more! Dozens of video slots. Hundreds of plasma TVs. Taxidermied bears, jackalopes and our old dog Stonewall. Horseshoe pits. Poker tables. Stills and spittoons. Our famous Cigar Cave, which pumps your exhaust into our gigantic barrel smoker. Peruse the Walmart-size gift shop chock-full of war toys, coonskin apparel and folksy trinkets. Kick up your heels at one of the stages featuring the likes of Lucky’s Lynch Mob, Confederacy of Punches, Red Rachel and the Hick-Hop Bitches, an animatronic jug band and a hologram of Roger B. Taney dancing the Hornpipe Gallop.

And when you’re darn well tuckered out, grab a seat on the three-tier porch to watch the race-baiting in the parking lot. Who’s up for a pistol whip? Yeehaw!

Oh, but watch out for those servers! Our busty, surly girls are serving up hearty helpings of sass, humiliation and impotent rage. They’ll call you ugly and unloved, go dead-eyed at your special requests and food allergies, screw up your order, spit their gum into your glass, pour vinegar on your lap, and Sharpie hilarious insults on your face like “NOBODY CARES IF I DIE” and “I’M SUCH A DOUCHE, I GIVE WOMEN YEAST INFECTIONS JUST BY LOOKING AT THEM.” Then they’ll pull down your pants and snap your itsy bits with a crab claw.

If you’re not laughing by now, they’ll stab you in the kidneys with a steak knife! Ha ha!

We’re not the bragging type, but somehow we ended up with the best and biggest vittles in the history of diabetes. Like our lip-smackin’ “Burning Monk” firecracker wings, “Crotch Rot” fried pickles, “The Cuckold” boneless chicken thighs, “Suicide Note” rattlesnake stew and “Deep Throat” buffalo tongue. Take the “Whole Cow Challenge,” and if you eat the entire carcass you get a year’s worth of Bailey’s shots plus a souvenir bedpan! All the while, just throw your scraps on the floor. Peanut shells, shrimp tails, fat strips, gravy caps, hog bristles, those chunks of cartilage in your jerk goat…you name it. If you’re too fancy for a little e. coli, you’d best not be coming ‘round these parts!

Every night for last call, we all raise our bottles and buckets to the dead ol’ grab-ass himself, John P. “Cracker Jack” Witherington, the slowest draw and longest pull in the West, East, North and deep-down South. We toast the legacy of the ornery bastard with a lusty shout of “He was framed!” and a few slurred bars of “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Then we slurp vodka Jell-O shots off the servers’ double-D knockers.

Cracker Jack’s Old Country Tits ’N’ Wings Roadhouse is located at the corner of Route 17 and Gadsden Road, one block north of Hobby Lobby. Closed Sundays for rest and the worship of our Lord Jesus Christ.