The Tale Of Lance From Your Local Joe's Crab Shack

Since the dawn of his youth, all Lance has envisioned for his future is kingpin quantities of crab legs and a rustic faux sea side ambiance. The scrap metal walls embroidered with the fingerprints and foreign substances ranging from mucus to adult feces, floors littered with carnage byproduct and employees painfully unaware of political correctness--the minute Lance stepped in his first Crab Shack at just 4 years of life, he was hooked on the crustacean cavern. July Jacker (J is silent), maternal figure in Lance's household could even notice the clear glazed over pupils as soon as the aroma of imported mussels made it's way up Lance's shotgun barrel nostrils. 

Despite his figure substantiating in mass, Lance didn't care--those who made fun of his stature wouldn't understand a thing about the Atlantic Steampot (both a menu item and the nickname for Lance's dick) and his growing passion for second hand seafood. 

By 17, Lance was 5'6 235 pounds and full of mercury, ready to finally get in the guts of the shack. He couldn't wait to get up and intimate with the crab crackers and he heard that 10% discount whispering sweet love.

My encounter with Lance happened in 2013, me and the mrs. were touring the rural midwest, as Caucasians are one to partake and we had a hankering for low quality seafood at a good price. Golden Corral or Joe's Crab Shack? We bickered and bartered for hours, she felt the versatility of the Corral offered a surefire ability to fulfill all her cravings but as the man of the household I asserted my patriarchal role and discounted all input from the peanut gallery--we were headed to see Lance. 

As we pulled in the lot, the wife's phone vibrated with a text from her co-worker Chad talking about training and she headed to the restroom to return his text. I trecked my way through a family of 5 violently fighting over the final clam, elbows and appendages were flying everywhere but thanks to my enthralling dexterity and width of a school boy I gallantly made it. Here came Lance, he had an unusual aura about him and in ways other than his scent--Lance made you feel distressed simply by the gait in his step, as if a penguin took far too much MDMA. As an unfamiliar foreigner to the region, I said "Howdy partner!" quickly regretting it, unsure if that was cultural appropriation. 

Lance snapped, "respect the sanctity of my dojo, this here isn't no rag tag joint and I ain't your partner". At this point in time, Lance was 23 going on 57--he needed new kidneys and required a ramp to be installed outside the building. Still I respected his wishes as I am a tourist in his jurisdiction, so I quickly apologized and continued my gander upon the orange soda and cajun spice encrusted menu. 

I felt disgusted, the place was an establishment chalk full of the criminals from 'Dog The Bounty Hunter' and for every tooth missing was another racial slur added. Finally, my slave wife came back from the bathroom, still complaining about equal rights and how paltry I am in every way possible--I laughed, women be talkin', they sure do. Lance, fixated on a leftover cob of corn from the table to the west, caught eye of my wife when she murmured "who is that?". Lance approached once more, and while waddling his way across the wetnap littered floor he slipped.

Crashing his premature, cantaloupe sized dome into a shattered bottle of Bud Light, the father of the clam clamoring family leapt to action--Lance was a luminary to these people, a man who represented all they wished to be. Indifferent about the lives of others, I continued in line but again women can't just behave. My wife dragged me to the scene of the crime where pedestrians of all shades of white and all levels of obesity cried out for Lance. "He hadn't had his 200,000th coconut shrimp yet! You can't do this god!", "We had a meeting tonight, Lance was gonna light the match the fire! Please lord, we've got business to take care of!". The place was shaken, ambulances arrived faster than any man had seen prior.

Lance went through extensive surgeries after suffering what was found to be a laceration upon the obscure birthmark above his right eye. Everything else was preexisting but the good people of medicine in Sand Springs, Oklahoma had to go and ruffle feathers. Lance fought hard and he fought long, but when Dr. Sanderson introduced Nurse Pablo, Lance went into shock. A male nurse? Didn't they know this man has a code? 

Net-net, Lance is dead and my wife lives with Chad now.