At least I'm still on that, or, to put it precisely, I remain a member of the Hoot Club. Every week they send me invitations to Hooters Events, and there are quite a few, most of them wing-centric. I've been invited to the West Coast Hooters Swimsuit Pageant, which is going to be held in Santa Ana, only a hundred miles of choking, crawling traffic jams away from where I live. As a reward for going and paying to ogle young girls in bikinis who wouldn't touch me under any roofie-free circumstances, I get five free wings.
Or I could meet Shawna, Hooters May Girl of the month. For that I get ten free wings. Apparently Hooters is feeling a little insecure about her. Couldn't say why.
Since north of here we're having one of our nice all-consuming California wildfires this weekend, Hooters emailed me notice that they are jumping on that bandwagon by giving everyone affected by the fire five free wings. That's right—as you drive away from the advancing flames while watching them consume all of your personal treasures in the rear-view mirror, you are supposed to think "Oh, boy—five free wings, here we come!"
Those Hooters execs aren't ashamed to market. No, they are not.
But my calendar is gone. It was sitting on the dining table in my special lady's house. I barely glanced at it, because my girlfriend and I have strict standards we hold each other to regarding ocular admiration of attractive young members of the opposite sex. I am allowed to look at young women in revealing clothes through my sunglasses as long as I merely shift the focus of my eyeballs and don't actually turn my head to do so. She is permitted to frankly stare at any attractive male for as long as she wants, and even mutter something like "yeah, baby," under her breath if she really likes what she sees. She was ogling a bare-chested jogger so unmercifully the other day from the car that I offered to swing around the block again so she could take a picture of the guy with her cell phone. She checked her watch and decided we didn't have time.
The calendar stayed on the table for a few days. I suggested hanging it up in her office, where I frequently work. She said "You're not hanging that thing up in my house!" in a tone of voice as decisive as a drone strike and not much quieter, either. "Hang it up in your house."
I failed to pack it, however, and then I made the mistake of opening it. I swear this was because I only wanted to find out what day of the month Memorial Day fell on this year and we didn't have any other calendars with the holidays marked on them in the place.
No sooner had the plastic wrap been peeled off of it than it disappeared. She decided that her graduate assistant needed the calendar more than me. She suspects him of having a less than completely successful love life, and apparently feels that a girlie calendar would help.
Me, I'm taking the guy out to Hooters and letting him have my five free wings. Wings aren't my favorite things. I don't dislike them; I just feel that, like crab legs, they are more trouble than they are worth. I prefer something meatier. I'll have a cold beer and think what I always think when confronted by a plate of Hooter's wings, which is, Doesn't anybody around here ever think about breasts?