Saturday evening, HP and I did a terrible thing: we chicked up the Hooters. We joined FoggyDew at this pre-verbal penile paradise for an early dinner. Why Hooters? Because a former Marine and two feminists hanging out there would make for a fantastic sitcom. Also, the Carolina-Notre Dame game was on. And, most importantly, why the hell not?
In the hour we were there, HP and I managed to critique the uniform for being less than figure-flattering, get in a long discussion about favorite shades of lip gloss, and debate whether the lack of utensils meant we were supposed to use our um, chestardly bits as “really sensitive chopsticks.” (That awesome mental image you just had? You’re welcome!)
After about ten minutes, Foggy pretended he had accidentally sat down at the wrong table, and had never met these two women before in his life. Or maybe he was just watching the game.
My sojourn at the Hooters did make me contemplate some serious questions:
The Chinatown Hooters opens at 10:00 am. Who can take the sight of Day-Glo orange short-shorts before noon? And do they have a breakfast menu, or do people really eat hot wings with coffee?
Is there any footwear less flattering than bright white sneakers with poofy 80’s style white socks?
Is wearing a low-cut top to Hooters like taking coals to Newcastle? Or is it just one more lovely addition to the scenery?
Why is it so much fun to say the name, "Hooters"? Hooters hooters hooters!
And, lastly, is going to Hooters for the wings anything like reading Playboy for the articles?
Our waitress Cha-Cha rocked, and my cheese sticks were very delicious. So, squicky objectification issues aside, hooray for Hooters! Who's going with me for breakfast this weekend?