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Alice, Your Days Are Numbered

Grilled Chicken blissfully enveloped by a bottomless bowl of Rigatoni, swimming in Five Cheese Marinara

My waitress, one of the faceless hundreds who have for three years tirelessly marched to and from Olive Garden’s kitchen in a futile attempt to fill the black hole that is my pastabelly gracefully places my meal in front of me.
“Here you go, sir. Don’t worry. The chicken’s just hiding under the sauce. Hehe.”
This is a clear breach of NEPB protocol - pasta, covered by sauce, covered by topping, every time - and I don’t particularly care for anyone else anthropomorphizing my food. That’s my job.
I make a mental note to leave a strongly-worded direct message with the official Olive Garden twitter to have her fired. It’s been a few days now and she still seems to be working, so I’m not really sure what’s going on with that. But we’ll wait and see.

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