At Hooters, Will was blissfully unaware that he was engaging in a double entendre-laced conversation with the waitress that made me want to simultaneously laugh and duck underneath the table out of embarrassment. Picture this: Will is white; the waitress is black. This is their dialogue, spoken without a hint of self-awareness:
BLACK WAITRESS: What would you like to drink?
WHITE WILL: I think I'm gonna have a milkshake. What do you like better...chocolate...or vanilla?
BLACK WAITRESS: What do I like?
WHITE WILL: Yeah...chocolate...or vanilla?
BLACK WAITRESS: Well, I like...both.
WHITE WILL: I'll have the...chocolate.
Will was initially perplexed when I mentioned how inappropriate his interaction with the waitress was.
BLACK WAITRESS: I'm sorry. We're out of the fish and chips.
GAY PRINCE: Nooooo!
BLACK WAITRESS: Do you want the grouper bites?
GAY PRINCE: The what?
BLACK WAITRESS: Grouper.
GAY PRINCE: Grope her?!
BLACK WAITRESS: Grouper.
GAY PRINCE: Grope what?
BLACK WAITRESS: Grou. Per. It's a type of fish.
GAY PRINCE: Oh. Whew.
Remember the first time I went to Hooters? I was visiting my sister, who was working at the one in Pasadena. Let's dig into the archives, shall we?
Ix-Nay on the Ooters-Hay
March 14, 2003
Tuesday was Hooters day because that's the day my sister works. She started working there after...The Operation. I was joined by Brent, Ken, and Loren, who will likely be whiny about the fact that his name appeared last in that list of names.
The inside of Hooters looks like a brightly-lit sports bar, with a dash of silicone. All the Hooters girls, whose tight white t-shirts and orange shorts are dangerously skimpy, greet you with a "Welcome to Hooters!" when you walk through the door. The menu is full of innuendo, e.g., the Hooters burger is "a mouthful," ha ha.
My sister was more animated than I've ever seen her, and she sat our table a lot, which is something Hooters girls do to keep the men entertained. The waitresses don't have to do anything in particular to keep the clientele happy—"they" just have to be visible and everything's good. I realized that it doesn't matter what the hell comes out of these girls' mouths because my sister passes the time by telling stupid jokes like, "Did you hear about the new pirate movie? It’s rated Aaarrrggghhh," and she gets good tips anyway.
I asked her if she treats cute young male customers better than she treats older guys, and she said that middle-aged, overweight men were almost exclusively the only people that show up to eat there and stare at the girls' name tags. She seemed more interested in talking about getting her real estate license and getting me to find her people who wanted to refinance their houses.
After telling my sister that Ken was "the only straight one here" and that "he really likes Asian girls" and that "he wasn't sufficiently entertained," my sister looked at him and said menacingly, "You're not entertained, huh...? And your name's Ken?" Then she walked away, a girl with a mission. A look of dread swept over Ken's face, and all of us at the table feared what was to come.
Ken and another customer were forced to stand on chairs, with their arms over their heads in the shape of a hoop, as Hooters girls surrounded them, clapping and signing and basically taunting them and forcing them to do a little jig, as the rest of the restaurant clapped along and as I laughed my ass off. Embarrassing, sure, but I'm sure the view was nice from where they were.
After lunch, Ken sent his girlfriend an "I love you" e-mail, which is really code for "I've been to Hooters, and I'm not going to tell you."