Hooters Smooters

I had the pleasure, and I use the term pleasure loosely, of going to a Hooters restaurant for the first time in the company of all male co-workers. We had just undergone a day of grueling team building, some I try to block out from memory, and we needed a medal in liquid gold, perferably several. As I entered the establishment, I expected to see a sea of bright orange hot pants and white tanks. But to my disappointment, it was black t-shirt Friday as I learned from a more veteran restaurant goer. The waitresses were all clad in black tanks and black leotard like shorts with tan nylons, way less tacky than I had wished for. One waitress in particular stood out in an obvious-trying-too-hard-had-work-done kind of way. The veteran expressed disdain in the absurd proportionality of her physique.

Vet: That is just ridiculous.
Me: XXXL?
Vet: (shakes head in distaste)
Me: I don't understand, isn't that why you guys come here? Here it is this poor girl trying to please, and you're complaining about the excess. I don't understand.
Vet: Well, it's overboard.
Me: Maybe it's her thing.
Vet: Why would anyone spend all that money on her body just to work at Hooters, she must be a professional.
Me: That's not true, there's a Hooter's pageant for Hooter girls all over the US. Good prize money, I think it's a scholarship.

Then I just realized how absurd that sounded and shut my mouth.

We ordered a few pitchers and, of course, the famous wings. I have to admit, the wings were quite good. The nachos we ordered were mediocre, although they did receive bonus points for serving fake cheese nachos (the kind you only find at stadiums). Our waitress was very attentive at making sure everyone's beer was topped off at all times, talk about service! In addition, she demonstrated a wing eating technique using latex gloves...that's all I have to say about that. All in all, the experience was innocuous. I think I'm ready to hit a strip club.