So we go to Sugar Land like once a week to monitor our goings-on and mentor the savagely retarded that work in a network of beaver holes near the haunted Imperial Sugar factory off HWY 90. Lunch options in SL are like choosing your own form of capital punishment: death is inevitable, you're just left deciding the quickest methodology. That's why we ALWAYS choose the aorta kickers at Captains D's Motherfucking Seafood Kitchen to fill our souls with delight and our hearts with breaded whitefish.
Every Tuesday, the benevolent Capt'n D opens his treasure chest to share a bounty of $10 all-you-can-eat cod. You can bet the The Jenny Jones Show will be on both 37 inchers, which is fine, since the iodine overexposure gives you the lobotomy required to enjoy such daytime television delights. Take care, because it's slippery. Look, you don't use peanut oil at that clip and not have a thin coating of shine lathered over everything in looking distance.Just because our days in Sugar Land are long, doesn't mean our life needs to be.