#5 PB&J is universally accepted food. Hot Pockets and frozen pizza, however, is trailer park food, and I cannot abide by that. At least have some chili dogs, fer cryin' out loud.
#7 That's why I've never been to a Hooter's. The way I figure it, it's likely to remind me too much of my first marriage. Sure, everything is fun and new at first. She brings you a cold beer. Makes you feel at least semi-attractive, wears some makeup, dresses up for you. Pretty soon you get to the food part...and it's not all that good. She's still dressing up for you, but you're starting to focus more on the food, and the excitement is starting to die down. Your beer is empty, and now you can't get another one, as she's off to the end of the bar talking with her other Hooter's girls friends. Now all you can focus on is the food, and what was mediocre is now ****wich territory, as that is all you have left to think about. Then you start to get depressed. Finally she comes over and you think maybe she's going to pay some attention to you. She scurries off to get you another beer, shaking her ass, and you're hooked once again. Then she disappears so long you think she's been kidnapped and you start to wonder what the ransom is. Then you realize F it, you're not paying it anyone. A burning pit starts to develop in your gut. You think it's cancer. It probably is. Country's pride, formerly lying on the floor of his doctor's office looking up at his ruined ass, crawls into the place and looks up at you with pity. That's right, Country's pride is taking pity on you, because even with his blown-out O ring, his pride would still rather crawl back up inside Country's damaged ass hamper than reside in your life for five miserable seconds. Then--wait a minute--she's coming back. She's smiling, making sure to bounce a little as she walks...she brought you another beer! Yay! But it's the wrong farking kind, and it's lukewarm! Too despondent to speak up now, you shrug and crack it open, pouring the liquid disappointment down your throat. The bitter taste of the street-level $800 billion a year advertising American Crapfest beer burning your esophagus on the way down to splashing onto that burning cancer spot, causing you to cringe. Then she hands you the check. Like everything else in the relationship to that point, it costs way more than you thought, it wasn't satisfying, and you're left with depression and a gnawing pain that is starting to eat at your own personal embarassment. Like everything else in the relationship to that point, you feel a need to prove you are a man, capable of earning, not a cheapskate, and you take the hit delivered like the first night in prison with a cellmate twice your size and breath that smells like Death itself. And you tip an insane 43%. She says a big thank you, smiles, and leans over just a little while doing this, giving you a glimpse at those golden orbs of pleasure...which you will never see in totality nor ever get to touch for the rest of your life, and it seems more like a cruel gesture than the whoreish dangling it really was. So you trudge out of the place, broke, even more embarassed, more depressed and as you see your 14 year old car, which is falling apart, you start to wonder if you can afford to buy at least one bullet to put in your head, and you decide you'd likely just wound yourself and end up owing millions in uninsured medical bills. As your car comes to life, you pull away, empty and unfulfilled, and some song comes on the barely working radio that you swear was ordered up by some higher power, just mocking you, taunting you, daring you. And all you do is go home and eat a Banquet frozen dinner, 12 for $5 at the local Ralph's, turn on your tiny aging TV, and sit and stare at it until the sun comes up.
And that, my friend, is why I don't go to Hooter's.
