Give a Hoot, Up in Your Area

Hooters, Times Square, NYC

But seriously, take your pick of "Tacky, Yet Unrefined™" eating and chest-staring-at establishments. I've been to various Hootoriums maybe five times in my life, and I can safely say that they are the least fun places on earth.



The hell of it is, it's all stuff I like. I like beer. I enjoy deep-fried food. And (and I hope this doesn't lower me in your estimation, gentle reader), I like looking at attractive women wearing caution-orange spandex hot-pants.



And Hooters wants you to have fun. It wants to cram fun down your fun-hole like those Japanese subway guys who cram commuters into crowded trains with big sticks.



The second you walk in, Hooters wants you to be blown away with how freaking fun it is to be at Hooters. With it's clubhouse wood paneling, it's crazy crap on the walls, it's million TV's showing a million sporting events, and Kid Rock blaring at all times, Hooters is your bass-ackwards 55 year old uncle trying to show you and your college buddies that he is still "Uncle Dan the Par-tay MAN."



And you just feel bad. Uncle Dan's gone through all this trouble to create this environment where you guys can just be DUDES. And do DUDE STUFF. Beer. Chicken wings. The game. And chicks. Chicks who talk to you, laugh at your jokes. And bring you more chicken. And more beer. Beer that makes Uncle Dan tell the same joke 9 times, and they laugh EVERY TIME. And he's like, "I still got it."



But he don't.



It's just so forced and weird, and he's so old and sad, and he's never been the same since Aunt Whatsername left. You can't even remember her name, because since you've been 10, he's brought, like, six different New Aunts around come Christmas time. And you know when this is all over, he's gonna go home to his studio apartment, turn on some Clint Black and just...Just stare.



Just stare into space, broken with the knowledge that the waitress hated him. Hated his jokes. Hated his face. He should call Aunt Whatsername. She got him. She was a catch, that one. But it's too late. So he fires up the internet, does what he does every night at 11:55pm, and then before he knows it, it's back to work at the pharmacy.



That's what Hooters feels like. Hooters feels like a guy bringing you to Hooters to prove he can still go to Hooters. The real question is, why are you there?



"Well...The wings..."



Shut up. The wings are terrible. And you know why the wings are terrible?Because wings are terrible. My buddy Dave summed it up best: "It's like eating a finger." Here's how bad wings are: They're served with RAW CARROTS AND CELERY. They're served with the two most boring foodstuffs in the world, in a desperate attempt to make wings look like a STAR.



Fuck wings. WHY ARE YOU AT HOOTERS?



"Well...The Hooters...The Hooters girls..."



SHUT UP. If you were raised Mennonite, I might understand. If you grew up longing to see exposed neck or ankle. I'd get it. If you spent your nights praying to Mennon, or whoever Mennonites pray to, that a Sears catalogue would accidentally get delivered to your house so you could see a fine ladywoman wearing lipstick and a tank top, like you heard whispered about in the Meeting House basement, I could begin to comprehend.



But if you are a guy, just a normal guy, and you go out of your way to eat terrible food, drink watered down beer, and yell "woo," when a team you don't give a shit about scores a whatever...Just so you can watch a woman who's soul is 22% dead dance the Achy Breaky, twirl a Hula-Hoop, pat you on the back, call you, "Darlin," and then bring you more terrible food and watered-down beer?



It's just all over for you, dude. Go move in with your Uncle Dan. Hope you like Clint Black. Hope you love getting your shot at the computer at 11:58.



I'll ask you one more time. Why. Are. You. At. Hooters?



"Because it's...It's supposed to be fun?"



Exactly.