Dear Flavor Flav's House of Flavor,
It's with a heavy heart I read your Eater.com obituary. I mean, I drive by you every day on my way to work, your Maryland Parkway-facing sidewalk littered with the gawky and the darting eyed, looking more like they never went to sleep versus just woke up and decided to tread that short rip of cement at 8 a.m., desperately searching for God or chicken wings or whatever.
The opposite of how you came — loud, with the pomp of a Long Island marching band — you left with the slink of a house cat scorned. I had no idea you shut your doors a couple weeks ago. I never even got to try your wings, though I heard they weren't amazing and were regularly unaccompanied by sides. Or cola. Or a comforting, family-friendly atmosphere.
It doesn't make it any less heartbreaking. You were supposed to be the chosen one, the horrible idea put in a horrible location after you'd already been shot down by a major casino or two. You were supposed to be the told-you-so, the how-you-like-me-now, laughing in the face of convention with the malice and retributive pitch of a man serving not fried chicken but bitter, bitter crow.
But you fell so short, sweet Icarus, from your Canola sun. Sure, we could just go to Vons down the street for, pretty much, the same treatment and atmospheric depth. But it's the principle of the thing. We can tell your passing sent your titular creator down a slippery slope, brandishing weapons at minors and catching assault charges and misdemeanor domestic violence charges.
We know you meant well. We know you wanted to be a gleaming beacon of hope in your otherwise beige community. But it was just too little, too late.
So farewell, sweet prince. We pour out these grease traps for you.
A healthier-by-default Las Vegas