Hooters Girls

Stereotyping is not usually one of my character flaws.
(Operative term: usually)
But I'm not suprised when a Hooters Girl shows a way-below-average IQ or cultural literacy level, just as I can be suprised when one shows a glimmer of a lit brain cell or two.

Take today for instance...
I had to run down to see my Mom today, and on the drive back to Jacksonville I decided on a nosh as I went by Daytona.
I have a weakness for chicken wings... (an entire blog series will be devoted to this- my achilles heel- in the near future.) For instance, last year up in Augusta I got a pile of wings from Hooters take-out and went back to my humble abode and picked the bones clean, and received a moderate amount of guff about it...
"Who gets take-out from Hooters? The only reason ANYONE goes there is for the scenery."

Well... Today I had a hankering for a plate of Cajun spiced wings and I hit the Hooters on Int'l Speedway Drive since it was quite convenient to I-95. For a holiday weekend, and one with a major motorsports race in progress, the joint was pretty empty.
I sat at the bar and was shooting the breeze with one of the cooks, mostly about the actual ingredients of the Cajun spice mix they use on the wings.

The Sweet Young Thing (SWT) that was waiting on us n'er-do-wells at the bar was a bit clueless:
1. She took my order for my beverage (unsweet tea), walked away and forgot it and came back and had to ask a 2nd time.
2. Brought me sweet tea anyway.
3. Took my order. (10 Wings, Cajun, naked).
4. Came back again because she wanted to know if I wanted them mild medium or hot.
(Big Red Flag! They don't come mild medium or hot when you order Cajun wings.)
I asked what she had me down for...
"20 wings and cheese fries." SWT said
I gently corrected her:
"That's not my order. I'd like 10 wings, Cajun. Naked."
"Ok. 10 Cajun wings, naked. Got it." SWT says.
SWT walks to the machine (5 steps away) and punches in my order. It gets sent back to the Grillmaster...
"Hey man..." I called to the cook.
"Yo, What up Big Dog?"
"What's that order she just sent in?"
He looked at my the order slip.
"10 naked Cajun. That right?" he asked.
"Yeah. Thanks."
"You smart to check. She's not the sharpest pencil in the box. They ain't hired for their brains."


This is not the Sweet Young Thing.

He went off to fix my order and SWT came over to check on my unsweet sweet tea.
Deciding to do some behavioral research I engaged in some polite banter.
"Boy... Not very busy today."
"No... It's been dead all day. I bet I won't make 20 dollars in tips today."
(This is a strippers gambit. "I'm so poor, and today is going to be worse than usual." The problem is that the ploy works in a topless bar, it is frowned upon when you are trying to portray an upbeat, fun image like Hooters of America's PR Department wants.)
"Oh well. I guess it is to be expected on a holiday weekend."
"Oh, it's a holiday today?" SWT asks.
"Well. Not today, but tomorrow. Memorial Day. Memorial Day weekend?"
"Oh." Short silence.
I was going to ask about her concept of "Memorial Day" but I was a bit concerned about the answer- it could have gone anywhere from "No Clue" to a complete full-goose bozo 'Get-the-US-out-of-Iraq-at-any-cost' Anti-Bush anti-war screamfest, so I decided to change tactics.
"Hey- I have a question."
"Yeah?" SWT said, cocking her haed to one side, not unlike a cocker spaniel.
"You know, one the menu you have different kinds of wings- You know- mild, medium, hot, three-mile-island, 911, cajun, BBQ, asian... Do you know what the 'three-mile-island' ones are named after?
"Sure. Three Mile Island." SWT looked very happy with her answer.
"Yeah- but why is that a wing flavor?"
SWT looked at me like I was asking her to formulate an elliptical re-entry orbit path for a Earth-to-Mars lander.
"Oh. Uh. I think Three Mile Island is where they make this really hot sauce for the wings. I think it's in Louisiana somewhere."
Hmmm.
"Oh." I said.
"Oh look! The Indy 500 is on... I wonder if Jeff Gordon is racing today? I met him once. He's sooo cute." SWT confides in a conspiritorial tone.


This isn't her, either.

He probably is, Sugar. But not in Indianapolis.

Amazing out-