Dining in the Dakotas (Part I)

Pizza Ranch

There were many positive aspects about today, although few as hilarious as pizza ranch. Pizza Ranch, from my understanding was established in Iowa, some town starting with a W. The founder was a nineteen year old male with a defined Christian agenda. He set out to create a restaurant that doubled as a missionary esque outpost, equipping each employee with the necessary tools to aid their community through exemplary service and god love. What this boils down to is a $10.00 all you can eat buffet where you can get anything that is already on the menu, thusly nullifying the purpose of individual orders, that is unless you're a vegetarian, and if you're going to be to eating at Pizza Ranch, chances are good that you aren't.
Upon entering the establishment I was met by a rotund (read fat) over excited mid-western feed cow, she had glasses and a smile, given a joint and a bottle of Early Times we likely could have found something to talk about. Deprived of these necessary social vices I was unarmed, and unprepared. My cover blown, Boston discovered, first time Pizza Ranch customer, long time fan. She talked and I listened, wanting my plate and possibly a shirt. "Whoah...that's good," was written over a Conestoga wagon on a red t-shirt, and everyone was a model. As slogans go theirs was perfect, and no good deed goes unnoticed so I came up with a slogan of my own design, "The dough is sweet! Pizza Ranch, the place to eat!" Not as good as the vocal ejaculation one makes when trying to halt a horse, but pleased me more than the cactus bread.
Taking my plate I assaulted the food and grabbed at gooey slices of cheese and meat. The pizza was....fine, in fact perfectly palatable. Yet my hungry gaze was directed more towards the diabolical diabetic deviancy that was embodied in the dessert pizza, a doughy, apple filled, toaster strudel frosting, cardiac arresting delicacy that I could only eat 2/3's of.
To comment on the fellow patrons seems almost as though it would be an exercise in rhetorical futility. For pure aesthetics there were a bunch of hefty American sized portions of human, draped in precious camo cloths and varying military or motorcycle paraphernalia. There seemed to be so much gung ho Americana flowing through the place that if one accusation of homosexuality were to escape my lips it would be met with a veritable witch hunt, and a flurry of self reassurances backed with mouthfuls of spherical meats. In an almost dull panic I reached with my eyes for reassurance, finding solace in a sign that assured me in 1879 nothing had happened here.
Breathing tangible sighs of relief I drowned my hunger in soft serve ice cream and ended up buying a Pizza Ranch shirt for the paltry sum of $10 bucks. Shirt and sticker badge in hand I left Pizza Ranch with every hope of returning, knowing full well that when settlers braved their way through these plains one hundred fifty years ago they were paving the way for Pizza Ranches, where Pizza Ranch hands could rope pepperonis and hams, and settle down with the good book and painted cow skulls. Rest easy colonial heroes, your ghosts are satisfied, and your memories preserved, Pizza Ranch honors fallen soldiers and American Americans, change your plate, it’s South Dakota law.