this was my first visit to hooters. yes. this is true. the back story written on the menu says the chain was founded in small town florida. i can believe that. hot dogs, fried pickles, girls wearing shiny slightly-darker-than-natural-skin-tone nylon stockings under bright orange short shorts-- yeah, that all jibes with what i remember about florida.
i've only been to the sunshine state a handful of times: there were a couple family vacations to epcot center, and when i lived in new orleans, i fled a mardi gras or two by heading to prime vacation destination (wink!), destin, fla. hey, i don't want to be unkind to destin, but lets face it, a bingo hall inhabited by the sun-weathered poor and elderly does not a vacation destination make.
anyway, back to tits, ass, and curly fries. the reason i went to hooters was not to punish myself --although, if i ever do find myself in a pitch of self loathing, i think ordering a series of "5 wing flappertizers"* might be just the ticket. however, on this occasion, i was invited to lunch by some friends. it was the wish of this one sweetheart of an air force pilot, currently exiled to clovis, to eat a 20 piece platter of hooter's special brand of 3 mile island hot wings. he's not even in it for the boobs, he says, just those triple-fried, greasy, greasy wings. to be honest, i believe him. he's more of a leg man. anyway, it was his desire to eat at hooter's, and, as he was buying, it was my desire as well.
i don't care how hardened you are to the cruelties of life, it's still a little disturbing to walk into a strip club that prides itself on being "family friendly." i am a sex-positive person, but i still don't think tittie bars should hand out balloons to patrons under the age of twelve. call me old fashioned, but kids that age should be learning about sex by courageously fumbling forward through the bases after killing a bottle of sweet vermouth hijaked from stepdad's liquor cabinet. right? i think it's one topic upon which katherine harris and i can agree.
there are plenty of very beautiful, very stacked women working at hooters. unfortunately for us, our competent waitress had ruined her otherwise bangin' figure with a pair of rock-hard, veiny franken-tits that invited stares for all the wrong reasons. however, she was an ace at affecting that cloying, kittenish demeanor that many men apparently mistake for genuine attention. well, good luck to you, girl. you seem smart. sorry about your boobs.
the nicest pair, as i'm sure you have guessed by now, were the fly '62 impalas parked out front. just gorgeous. worth the trip. and if you want a take-home message from this little rant, it's that if you are willing to pick up the tab, i am willing to drink and dine with you anywhere, and then i will write a witty** post about our adventure. so don't hesitate to hit me up.
*5 wing flappertizer is an actual offering. i didn't make it up to get a laugh.
** as measured by subjective standards. that is, no standards at all.
1962 chevrolet impala