Could it get any hooter, I mean hotter in here?

Dearest Bloggers,

It has been a fortnight since my last post, for I have been hard-pressed of late to find the quality of blogging material that my fine young readers expect and demand with a tyrannical appetite. And no, I don't talk like this in real life. I just prefer my blogs to come off like an episode of "Dawson's Creek" (props to Lynne for whom that reference would have been impossible to make without). The story that follows is an emotional rollercoaster for me and is the fantastic conclusion of one of my lifelong ambitions. On the other hand, it is an embarassing and incriminating story that is intended for mature audiences for sexual humor and partial nudity. The following happened between the hours of 12pm and 3pm on January 09, 2007.

It was a slow day at work, so I was already planning on taking longer than my usual hour at lunch. Because of my previous holiday travels, it was time to get the oil changed. Hooters restaurant is the only eating establishment within walking distance of the Big 10 Tires, so this is where I usually eat when I get my oil changed. It just gives me another lame excuse for going there beside all the other lies that justify it like "They have great wings" or "The prices are reasonable." When everyone knows the real reason I or any other XY chromosome darkens the door of said establishment . . . the sweet tea.

I am always leary of oil changes because I feel like I am being taken advantage of. There is always something wrong. This time, it was my drive axle. And being the "turn the other cheek/take my cloak too" kind of guy, I always give in to the recommended repairs. Lucky for me, Hooters had plenty of sweet tea to quench my thirst for my lunch date would be much longer than expected.

So that you can truly visualize and appreciate this little scenario, I will go into Tolkienish detail(I know Jules will appreciate this, sorry to all others).

Upon opening the door to the diner, I raised my sunglasses and propped them on top of my temple. I was casually attired in khaki Dockers slacks with an green plaid Ivy Crew long-sleeved button up shirt, untucked of course (spared no expense). I carried two textbooks under my left arm to study during lunch. I often carry things with my left arm as a form of exercise so that it can keep up with the exponential growth of my dominant right arm. The smaller of the two textbooks was an exotic animal drug formulary. The much thicker and more impressive of the textbooks was that of avian medicine and surgery, 3rd edition.

The fragrance of chicken wings and draft beer flooded my olfactory. I looked around for a hostess only to spy a long legged Asian beauty on roller skates and the custom issue orange and white coming my way from across the restaurant. I watched as she gracefully threaded the traffic and tables in a serpentine pattern and listened to the sound of her wheels on the hardwood floor. She asked me what I was studying, and I humbly told her. Her eyes grew to twice their size when she heard the word "medicine." I could only foolishly think to myself, "Maybe, this doctor thing does work after all."

Throughout my meal of wings, fried pickles, and delicious sweet tea, my waitress kept sitting down with me, flipping through my textbooks and asking me questions about my job, telling me about her chinchilla, and making other small talk. It was honestly nice to have someone to talk to, but I figured she was just working on a big tip. After I finished my meal, I recieved the call from Big 10 to find that my stay at Hooters would be much longer. I could have left, but 3 hours in Hooters is far more entertaining than 3 hours at Big 10 watching one of the three TV channels they pick up with the antenna.

After eating and about 30 minutes of post-prandial studying, my ADD was kickin' in, yeah. I soon found my section of the restaurant was quickly accumulating waitresses. Apparently, I had been seated in the section where Hooters' girls hang out when business is slow. In short time, I was surrounded by scantily clad women with unnatural proportions and even more unnatural pseudo-tan legs. There is suprisingly a lot to be learned from these wing-slinging wenches. They are really a carefree, funloving bunch. For one whose everyday work can be quite stressful, this was a most welcome relief.

Most of the tables around me were bubbling over with bittersweet excitement over a mandatory meeting that occurred previously that day. The guest speaker at said meeting was a local plastic surgeon who was offering payment plans for any Hooter girl who wanted discount breast augmentation. It turns out that Hooters corporation strongly encourages female employees to have work done to help the overall industry and boost third quarter earnings. (I wonder if the male employees feel left out.) Most of the girls were giddy with excitement and were shamelessly handling their business right in front of me trying to imagine what they would look like when the metamorphisis is complete. When I finally quit staring, my waitress asked me my opinion. I honestly said that I was a little disgusted by it, which was obviously the correct answer for her. She said she was never getting any work done, and we continued to discuss how unfortunate it is that some women resort to such lengths to either feel good about themselves, impress someone, or even make more money. I earned some definite brownie points for my staunch opinion on this matter.

I was suprised at how persistent my waitress was at working on that tip. She ended up staying at my table for 1.5 hours talking to me, only to get up a few times to check on her other tables. I actually had quite a nice time hanging out. We watched scrabble on ESPN (that could be a whole blog in itself). We talked about our lives and what we do when we are not working. She told me some stories about some guys she had punched out, you know, the basic ice breaker small talk.

Overall, the experience was interesting. With that many beautiful women around me touching themselves, I finally felt like the rock star that I have always aspired to be. Now, I can just go back to being a humble public servant. But maybe one day in 3,000 miles, I will see my Asian angel again and give her that tip she worked so very hard for.