A 13-year-old boy I know has requested to have his birthday party at Hooters.
I was somewhat stunned on hearing this and detected a nervous twitch from the parent telling me.
“Oh,” I said.
“It’s what he wants,” I was told.
Fair enough, but what else does he want? Should he request a blow job from Megan Fox, do we see what we can do to make it happen? Aren’t we, perhaps, setting him on the road to objectifying women and saying: “It’s OK, carry on,” whilst patting him on the back as he does so?
Don’t get me wrong – this kid is a great kid – but Hooters? Hooters? It’s not even as if they have good wings!
On late night TV the other night I discovered the Miss Hooters International pageant. I’m not sure what I expected from this –or why I insisted on watching it all the way to the end – but it was a lesson in how to blend in.
Each girl (except for maybe two or three out of the 100 girls competing for the title) had a completely plastic front. They all, (again, except for maybe two or three) had exactly the same hair – long of course, and curled loosely.
“I like going to the gym!” and “I like relaxing!” they cried out.
“I like updating my facebook!” was one of the girl’s interests, announced as she dutifully bounced up the catwalk.
“When I’m doing the photo shoot, I’m thinking ‘how can I look sexy’?” responded one bosom-bountiful lass when asked what she was thinking about during her recent beach shoot.
At least she was thinking.
I couldn’t help but wonder how many of them, after not receiving the worldly grand sum of $50,000 for first place, took up offers from the circling sharks in the hotel lobby, ready to pounce on young blood, eager to earn a fast buck.
But maybe that’s just me objectifying women.
I’ve been to Hooters. I’ve even eaten food there – of which, I have to say, I can definitely say a big ‘Wooters hooters’ to the deep fried pickles.
Speaking of pickles; maybe I should start a chain restaurant called Schlongs, where every male employee is required to be suitably well endowed and dash from table to table wearing uncomfortably tight shorty-shorts, while the female patrons gnaw on undercooked wings whilst staring fixatedly at their server’s groins and returning home with a dose of food poisoning.
The logo alone would be fantastic.