We here at Snoochie Boochies, the only restaurant themed around the films of Kevin Smith, have a lot of respect for our customers. (What we don’t have respect for are the cease and desist letters Mr. Smith keeps sending us. You want us to stop profiting off of your work, Kevin? Get your Jersey-boy ass down here and say it to either my face or to the faces of the seventeen employees whose healthcare I refuse to pay for.)
We were blown away by our customers’ enthusiasm for the “Kids Eat Free If They Can Kick the Manager’s Ass” special. Unfortunately, we have decided to discontinue it indefinitely. We understand that this is in direct opposition to our advertising campaign, in which I said, “You have my word we will never, ever discontinue this special because I am not a coward.”
It would appear that I am a coward. But sometimes the bravest thing you can do is admit you are a coward. Therefore, I am not a coward.
What started as a fun way to encourage diners to bring their whole family down to Snoochie Boochies (and if we’re being honest, get some single mothers to think of me as good husband material by showing off my threshold for physical abuse at the hands of their spawn) quickly snowballed into a cavalcade of injuries, medical bills, and me denouncing my religion because no God would allow someone to suffer like this.
I’m not sure if I underestimated the strength of the average 10-year-old or if I overestimated my own strength. All I know is that the doctors have diagnosed me with “early onset droopy ass syndrome,” a condition that is contracted from getting your butt whooped too many times and is also irreversible. I had to give away my favorite pair of pleather basketball shorts the other day since they no longer fit; my booty is so flat that they slide right off when I try to pull them on, no matter how tight I tie the drawstring.
Anyway, if a 10-year-old is strong enough to kick my ass, they probably need larger portions than what is available on the kids’ menu to satisfy their hunger. Someone who is able to lift me over their head, spin me around like a helicopter, and throw me into a dumpster needs more sustenance than three Chasing Amy chicken fingers and a handful of Fatman on Batman fries.
In fact, many voracious youths exploited the offer for this very reason. It is partly my fault, because instead of specifying one meal per child, the rules stipulate one meal per ass-kicking. Some kids would come in here and kick my ass three or four times for lunch, then come back a few hours later and kick my ass another few times for dinner.
Perhaps worst of all, I have lost the respect of my employees. The other day, I asked a staff member to clean the Zack room (as our fans know, we call the men’s room the “Zack” room and the women’s room the “Miri room”). He picked me up, covered me in bleach, and used my entire body like a sponge to scrub the floor. This is the kind of thing that wears on a person’s self-esteem, especially when it happens multiple times a week.
I know I was talking a pretty big game earlier when I challenged Kevin Smith to come down here, but that was all for show. I really hope he doesn’t. This morning he sent me an oversized hockey jersey and told me that he was going to use it as a body bag for my corpse when he gets through with me. I’m really scared because if a bunch of children can deliver a beatdown of epic proportions upon me, just imagine what a middle-aged indie filmmaker with a knack for writing snappy dialogue about sex and pop culture could do.
I now see that it was my hubris to which I have fallen victim. Each tiny fist punched into my gut is a reminder of this. The other night a boy whose parents were going through a divorce showed up to the restaurant and really worked out some of his frustrations on me. When I founded this restaurant, I never expected that a fourth grader would waterboard me with “Yoga Hosers” house dressing. As I was washing the dried remains of it out of my goatee (which I grew as an homage to Dante from Clerks), I realized I had hit rock bottom. Something simply had to change.
That is why we have unveiled a new special to replace the old one; kids, so long as they are able to provide proof that they are ten years old or younger (I have grown suspicious that some of these “kids” are actually full grown adults who are simply wearing propeller hats and holding oversized lollipops), will get a free drink if they resemble Kevin Smith from twenty feet away or less.
Here at Snoochie Boochies, we want to encourage the next generation of cinematic talent, and we’re doing it the only way we know how: by rewarding children who look like middle-aged men. And that’s a Snoochie Boochies guarantee.