From the people who brought you The Week in Craig, one of the all time great uses of the internet, comes The Week in Yelp, wherein Amy Blair takes aim at the ridiculousness that is the world of Yelp. Her intrepid Yelp-surfing, and words, follow:
Having lived in the Twin Cities for several years, I harbor a deep love/hate relationship with the Midwest. Love: summer at the lake, driving a car, everything is cheap, state fairs are awesome. Hate: extreme cold winters, bad public transportation, ranch dressing, the smell of farm shit wafting for miles?
Even so, my love of the Midwest outweighs the hate. What can I say? I'm a sucker for cows. (Err?).
That said, the Midwestern love fest isn't exactly continuing over on Yelp. This week it's all about big city Yelpers hatin' on the flyover country. Sorry Midwest, but this week, you're goin' down?
First up, a review of In-N-Out Burger from a former Wisconsinite with a little, um, chip on her shoulder when it comes to her former homeland. Also, you gotta love the opening line of her review. “Imagine if you will a land of flat land?” That’s just classic.
Imagine if you will a land of flat land, polish sausage-colored thighs, bratwurst, and beer. A land called Wisconsin, shaved down by the last ice age, flat as some European tourist's pancake ass, vacant of the Holy Grail called In-n-Out.
My first In-n-Out experience meant me coming across some Internets rumor of a sign strategically shot out to read 'In N Out URGE' on some foreign West coast freeway. I didn't know then what exactly this was but knew somehow I had to get a piece of it.
Now, of course, nearly 10 years later, I'm a fully naturalized Californian complete with total lack of aversion towards illicit substances of the marijuana form and strange hipster accent.
So I'll be God damned if I don't now work merely blocks away from an In-n-Out that once stood as some elusive California thing my underage Wisconsin ass may never ever find in my adventures across Sheboygan and Brown fucking Deer.
A girl cannot live on junk food alone. Even with my green tea/Burrito diet (don't ask, bitch, just know I got it and you don't), I still make a half-assed stab at eating right. Red Bull makes a good breakfast. It has vitamins and shit, motherfucker!
But sometimes, between coworkers' radishes and gingerbread cakes and awesome dinners courtesy of my boy, a girl craves some shitty comfort food.
This location is always packed. But so is the Wharf so what the fuck do you want? The natives have to fight an entire family of snarly Germans just to get a God damn burger down by my work hood, that's just how it is, homie.
I got down there and back to the office in 20 minutes flat this afternoon and had an extra 3 lbs of double double weighing down my ass for the remainder of my day but oh fucking well. At least I know my useless Wisconsinite high school friends don't get to eat like this. Ima Facebook your bitch ass a la Superpoke, double double sitting like a ton of bricks in my gut and all. You don't know me and my exotic Northern California lunch choices.
p.s. One girl who works here is awesomely rad but I'm too fucking busy and too rare a sight to even ask her name.
For even more, head over to Eater.