It’s 2026. I slouch patiently at the finest not-so-local dining establishment, Rainforest Cafe, awaiting my three guests. Following the dress code of “business casual,” I wear none other than my very best—a stylish pair of black slacks, a bright (yet still flattering) blouse, and perfectly ironed blazer. After all, this meetup has been planned for over a year at this point, and I must make my very best impression. That’s also why I am a mere thirty minutes early; as they say, “if you’re not early, you’re late.”
Eventually, I see my first dinner guest talking to the hostess. She dons a ruffled, ornately layered dress, large hat, and, of course, a simple pair of gloves. Her name? I have no clue. The invitation was simply to “A Victorian Woman;” frankly, I’m surprised she even found the correct restaurant. The hostess guides VW to my table, and although I offer a high five, she seems unsure of the gesture.
“Salutations, huzz,” I greet her. Gotta make a great first impression, you know? She peers at me, confused.
“Good evening, and if you’ll excuse my asking, what is a ‘huzz’?”—it appears ol’ VW is not hip with the slang of today’s society.
“Ah, don’t worry about it. Welcome to the famed Rainforest Cafe. I’m Mia, and our other guests should be pulling up any minute—what was your name again?”
“Alas my dear, my name is Victoria White. This is such an…unique experience so far!”—she turns and notices the large waterfall casually flowing from the ceiling next to our table—“Good heavens! Who has brought the water inside?!”—she looks me up and down, noticing my choice of pants to dinner—“and good heavens! You have made the conscious decision to wear pants?! I had believed this was supposed to be a civilized meal!”
“That’s just a feature of a classic Ohio restaurant; it creates a boujee atmosphere and helps us chill guys connect more with nature,” I explain, carefully avoiding the criticism of my pants. I happened to think they looked quite demure while getting ready this morning. We sit in awkward silence, Victoria inquisitively scanning our surroundings, “Thick of It” playing quietly through the restaurant’s speakers.
Suddenly, we hear a ruckus coming from the entrance. A small yellow figure, dressed in blue denim overalls, is scrambling over to our table. His sixteen black hairs are overly gelled on his otherwise empty head and he peeks up at us through black goggles from below the table.
“Bello!” The figure smiles, waving a gloved three-fingered hand.
“Dear heavens! Who is this monster!?” VW exclaims, jumping in her mass-manufactured wood-carved chair.
“Why, hello sigma Kevin.” I gesture to his seat, the only one with a booster chair in it. VW looks as though she has seen a ghost, and pulls a handkerchief out of her pocket to dab her face. I pull out a small booklet I made earlier that afternoon, titled Brainrot to Victorian English Dictionary.
“Here Victoria, use this to understand. I’m simply on that grindset mindset, I can’t stop,” nodding as I hand over the guide.
The waitress comes over, and after contemplating what to get (VW seemed quite confused as to what a “Rumble in the Jungle Turkey Wrap” is), we order an Ancient Grain Bowl, Anaconda Gluten-Free Pasta, and two bananas.
Finally, our third and final guest arrives. The double doors somehow open by themselves and a breeze fills the cafe. Lewis Hamilton struts in, wearing an extremely (too extreme?) neon green zebra print vest, over an equally neon pink and blue zebra print shirt, with a pair of pants that match the vest. When he stops, his clothes blend into the busy walls of the Rainforest Cafe—a coincidence? I think not.
“Sorry I’m late guys, my car has been a little slow lately,” Lewis apologizes, motioning out front where his Formula 1 car is casually parked. Appalled, VW puts back on her gloves, shakes his hand, and sits down again.
“My goodness, you all are quite unusual. And you are English too, I assume?” She questions Lewis.
“Yes ma’am.” Hamilton takes his seat next to her, calls over the waitress, and orders a simple meal for at simple guy: the Primal Steak, with their best bottle of wine.
The night goes on surprisingly chattily, although Victoria does spend a large majority of her meal flipping through the dictionary, trying to decode our terms. It turns out Lewis Hamilton is more chronically online than one would’ve thought, and Kevin? Well, he’s Kevin. Lots of “Kanpai!” and “Poka?” from his corner of the table, and although he’s sometimes understandable, we can’t seem to figure out what “mi batonka deladiou” means.
“Allow me to clarify, when I am out looking for a good husband, you call that ‘rizzing?’” While Victoria learns the brainrot fairly quickly, there are some terms she simply doesn’t understand; “chat” and “skibbidi” being two of them. Kevin even learns a little with Victoria, and I’m able to teach him “cooked,” which, with the language barrier, I am quite proud of. VW learns about the incredible inventions of the 21st century, such as Reels, Feastables, and low taper fades. She becomes so comfortable that even when the Rainforest Cafe storms, she only jumps around seven inches off her chair, screaming in fear. I expected worse, to be honest.
But alas, every good night must come to an end. Unfortunately, Lewis had to catch his flight to his next race, VW’s horses were becoming restless, and Kevin had to go help steal the moon. We exit, our vocabularies maxxed, our meals 4+4, and our first get together slayed—mission: successful.