I was eating a chicken strip when a waitress walked behind me and I glanced over, and unintentionally got an eyeful of her cheeks. Not the ones on her face. That is the image I’ll remember from Hooters.
I’d never been to a Hooters before tonight. I’m not against the restaurant chain. I don’t have any moral opposition to the people who work or dine there. I’d just never had the desire to go. I love buffalo sauce as much as the next guy (probably more so), but I think the chicken fingers at Zaxby’s are just fine, and I don’t feel the need to look at someone else’s breasts while I eat them.
A co-worker is leaving, and wanted to have his going-away party at Hooters, so I gave up my clean record tonight. I showed my “newness” right away by trying to order a margarita. “We don’t serve margaritas.” They don’t serve margaritas? I guess that’s too girly, and let’s face it, Hooters doesn’t exist to entice the ladies. So I tried to quickly recover by ordering a Corona. I’m cool. I can hang. I can drink beer.
The buffalo chicken fingers were fine, and the service was too. I could have done without the flesh peeking out from beneath the camouflage shorts, or the tight tees reading, “weapons of mass distraction,” but it was an okay experience.
But I still like the Zax. The only breasts I want to see while I’m eating are chicken breasts.