Phishr Chronicles

This one hurts me.  When I was about 16, Fat and I would come here for “man’s night” as a tradition we wanted to claim. Around my 21st birthday I became afraid of women who flaunted their body for money and began disrespecting them.  It’s no so much of a fear as it is a blatant loss of emotion for their general human rights. Tittie bars and Hooters were out of the question.  Some would see them as eye candy whereas I would wonder what point of their life did they decide to do this.

 ”But Phishr, my girl dances and she makes more money than god”.

So?! I could give the best fellatio to truckers and bring home millions but still cry myself to sleep trying to repress the actuality that I am in fact a professional cocksucker…. Anyways.

I show up to Gerbil’s birthday get together at Hooters. I mistakenly show up an hour early. Fail. In an attempt to find something to pass my time I drive in circles. Not working. What can I possibly do to delay me walking in this place and feeling like the guys off of “To Catch a Predator”.  I drive to my bank and hope to get stuck in rush hour.

9 minutes later I’m back in the parking lot.

“Fuck!”

I go in.

Hostess, “Welcome to Hoot..”

“where’s the bar.”

She directs me and I go. 

I perch up and wait for a beer. While waiting I note a USA Today, and I reach for the sports section. There is a grease stain with the remnants of chicken stuck to the page.

I wait for my beer and stare at the wall.

“What can i gt you to drink”

I point at an aluminum Bud bottle in the fridge behind her.

“Do you want draft or bottle?”

I point more sternly at the aluminum Bud bottle behind her.

“Glass or Metal?”

Are you kidding me? “The aluminum one!”

My beer tastes like bitter hell. I stare at the wall and force down the $5 crap. I tip $2 dollars.

$2 dollars. Remember.

7P.M.- My party arrives. We have the back room. I grab a seat and two of the girls take our drink orders. There are 13 of us. 7 pitchers at most.

7:20P.M.- My sole pitcher arrives.  Hooray. I order fried pickles because I have heard they are excellent, and a 10 piece 911/Cajun wings.

7:50P.M.- My pickles arrive. This is the 3rd time I have seen the waitress. We are not too demanding of a crowd. What could be he hold up?

7:54P.M.- My wings are in front of me. I inhale the deep fried misery and prep for my wings.  911 wings were cold. I don’t mean heat lamp cold, I don’t mean room temperature cold, I mean ‘the health department would have a freaking field day for the temp of this chicken’ cold.  Also, 4th time to see her.

By 8:30 it is obviously clear that everyone is ready for a ticket or another drink. I give the universal “ticket” gesture.

9:17P.M.- I get my ticket. It is 23 dollars and some change. I hand the girl $40.

“Do you want change?”

4 words have just ruined this girls night.  I don’t care how “nice” these girls are, or how “caring” they are, her mother should have aborted for all I care.  I am officially beside myself. I see you less than 4 minutes in the past 2 hours and 17 mind numbing minutes and you have the audacity to ask if I want the fair half of my 23 dollar ticket back? Why you rotten little skank…

NOTE: I had strategically placed 71 cents under a plate as her tip because the service was that pathetic.

I deduct 2 quarters from that. And to be honest, I’m sure I was in the top 10% who gave her the best tip.

Combined, the table had to of spent $500-$600.  She probably only made 20 bucks. Excuse me, $20.21. 

I don’t care how big your tit’s are. You get TIPPED for good fast friendly service. You don’t give the gold medal to the gymnast with the most degrading costume. If she doesn’t like the costume, she should have been a CFO or a trucker or a mascot.  I hope that 21 cents gets her far on the highway to life, cause she should probably think about driving as far away as possible from what she’s currently doing.