As far as I’m concerned, there are only two reasons people go to The Cheesecake Factory. 1. They’re going to prom. 2. They want to get their genitals played with. Since I haven’t done either of those things in months, I consider it odd that I recently found myself dining at the Milwaukee location of this famed franchise. But there I was, in the immense chain eatery in all its implied better-than-TGI Friday’s decadence.

Despite the rarefied air of, like, every girl’s favorite restaurant, I didn’t relent to the pressure of trying some fancy ass almond-crusted- or lemon pepper-type dish — or even the cheesecake North America has been slinging jizz over since 1978. Single-minded as I am, I was there to eat up some motherfucking pizza.
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