Dear Chuck,
(
Can I call you Chuck?)
Hi. My name is Mr. Brian J. Hough. I'm 30, and I have two little girls who/whom I occasionally bring to your restaurant. I wanted to take the time today to tell you that I find both you and your establishment to be a steaming, pile of
crap.
Sweet Baby Jesus, do I loathe you. You are the product of early-90s 'kids think
this is cool!' - a panel of marketers who were hoping to tap into the 'hip' kid demographic.
Did you ever see that episode of
The Simpsons? The one with
Poochie? You're like Poochie, Chuck.
Let me explain. Now, I get the perma-grin/glazed-over expression you constantly sport, I do. I
have kids, and I
know what they do to one's soul. You're a happy-go-lucky mouse, you're constantly having to put on a happy face being around kids - even if you feel like punching the nearest toddler square in the face. It's tough, man - I know.
...but the knee pads and helmet? No, sir - you work
indoors. You look like an idiot. If you rollerblade, Chuck, that's fine... I guess (
you might be a little old for it, Chuck... its 2010 and nobody really does that anymore except for 8 year old girls at skating rinks).
Damn it, Chuck - you're
not rollerblading while you're entertaining. I've
been to your restaurant a ton of times, and every time I see you you're either eating pizza, hugging kids, or doing both simultaneously. Do you
really need knee pads for
that?
There's
no plausible scenario I can think of that would warrant you wearing a helmet indoors (none that makes sense anyway). If you were a real-life-sized mouse - or even a four-foot tall mouse - I
might be able to see it; little kids doped up on sugar, pizza, and over-stimulation might accidentally plow you over. I'd wear a helmet in
that situation, for sure.
You're
nine feet tall.
Nobody'
s knocking you down, Chuck. Take off the damn skate gear already.
You know, I think, deep, deep-down, you harbor strong insecurities regarding your own shortcomings. Three, simple words lead me to this conclusion:
Showbiz. Pizza. Place.
Comparing yourself with the
collective genius you strong-armed out of the pizza/arcade/stage-show industry
can'
t be an easy or pleasant thing to deal with. If
I were you, Chuck, I'd probably want to wear protective clothing myself. To hide my shame, and to protect my 'nads.
More than once I've contemplated strolling up to you and punching you right in the face for this.
You sent a great vaudeville ventriloquist, a good ol' boy (er, bear), and the greatest, hard-rockin' band this side of
Electric Mayhem straight to the nearest homeless shelter:
That's right, the
Rock-afire Explosion.
They were awesome, and now they're probably alcoholics. I'm pretty sure that gorilla that played keyboards for the 'Explosion is a full-blown meth-head now, and I won't even begin to go into what the cheerleader mouse is doing for money these days.
You ruined lives, Chuck -
lots of lives.
I'll never forget the first time I walked into a Showbiz Pizza Place with my family, expecting an awesome time, only to see - with
no small degree of horror - some lame-looking, rollerblading mouse wearing purple and a shit-grin.
For shame, Chuck.
For shame.
I think you owe the world apology. Seriously. I think you owe
every child born after
1985 your sincere condolences and reparations for what you've done. You denied generations of children a life-changing experience, and that's something they can
never get back.
Sure, my kids love your restaurant, but they're also really, really dumb. I mean, collectively, my two kids might be able to match wits with a Golden Retriever (
not that one from the Air Bud
straight-to-video franchise - he seems like he's got his shit together). I've attached, for your viewing pleasure, some videos that show just how much my kids seem to 'enjoy' your sham pizzeria.
I want you to watch their innocent faces and contemplate just how much you've screwed with their intellectual development by denying them the righteous jam-masters you forced out of the industry.
In closing, I just want to say once again just how deeply, deeply disgusted I am with you. You suck, and your beer is nowhere
near as cheap as it should be.
Every dad that enters your restaurant requires more than a few drafts to stomach the pure crap you're spewing at their children - lower the prices already.
...and take off the damn knee pads. You look like an idiot.
Disgusted and disgruntled,
Mr. Brian J. Hough
Rockafire Explosion Fan for Life
Word, people..
The Cannonball's 3rd birthday cake
Cake Master
Professional photograph - 1 token
(she really sucked at this game)
Abby in Gabbaland
Alayna and Papa John check out the animatronic mouse that owns the place 
Establishing headquarters
Abby and a rather handsome man.
One, gigantic tub of tokens.
Alayna busts out her tokens
First ride on the horse (soon to be a personal favorite)
Abby, unsupervised
Discussing the current political situation in Libya with Lindsay
Homeboys.
This is not an uncommon sight
...neither is this.
Healthy dinner
Abby, not upset enough to prevent her from devouring a few pieces of pizza.
Showing off her pizza to the Voigts and their son, Clint
Riding with Derrick
Some party guests
Alayna and her friend, Adylyn (not sure how that's spelled)
...and with her pseudo-beau, Derrick.
Grandma and Papa John
Abby in a rare happy mood (seconds before Chuck waltzed over and made her crap herself)
MOUSE!!!!!!
Makin' friends
A much weirder family portrait.
The Chuck
Cake time!
The Hough girls tear into the cake
...and so does this random kid who just came over, sat down, ate a piece of my kid's cake, and left without saying anything to anyone. I'm hoping he got hit by a bus on his way home.
Hugs with Alexander
More grandparents
Yet another ride on the horse with Derrick
Wrapping up the meal
Posing for another family portrait
Leaving Chuck's
On the way home, watching 'Bear in the Big Blue House'
(Abby didn't make it)
(Happily) digging into the birthday plunder
Cannonball and Chuck
