This morning at the gas station where I was doing my part to keep King Saud in Bentleys for years to come, I saw a truck with a bumper sticker that read, “I Love Hooters”.
I have been to exactly two Hooters in my lifetime. One in Bellevue, before the sterilization Nazis drove them out of town and replaced them with “The Store Where Everything is Just Super”, and the other in Orlando, FL. Food sucked. “Talent” at both locations (c’mon Florida, what the HELL!?) was worse than your average Friday night in Belltown. It was…fine. But fine enough to defile my car’s paint with a sticker professing my undying love? Nope.
Even if the talent were up to snuff – something like they show on their website- there is just something fundamentally wrong with Hooters.
Is there anything less sexy than a thin layer of tan polyester stretched across someone’s calves? Isn’t this fashion misstatement in the purview of my great grandmother? There is nothing sexy about them – if the goal is to get me sexually aroused so I’ll stay longer – drink watery beer, and tip heavier – the mere thought of having to peel off some hotties nylon leggings lest I get shocked by the static electricity they surely must generate when they rub together tends to put a damper on any phallic arousal I may have had.
Furthermore, aren’t these puritanical? What is the purpose except to hide bare flesh from the menfolk? And at Hooters? Isn’t this a huge oxymoron?
Yes, pantyhose gross me out. They should be relegated to the dustbin of history like cloth handkerchiefs. Who thought those were a good idea? Let me blow snot into a piece of cloth and then let me shove that back in to my pocket. Why don’t I just blow my nose directly into my shirt? At least I won’t be putting my hand there when I’m fumbling for my keys.
“I Hate Pantyhose”. That’s my new bumpersticker.