Life has gotten in the way of my time spent in front of a computer, so my apologies to those of you who’ve been waiting with bated breath for the end of this caper.
I assure you all, based on the feedback I’ve gotten from some of my buddies about what they think happened, that most of you will be disappointed.
Let me just say now, for those who will stop reading when they learn this, that there was no threeway with my possible former gym teacher, Pickles and me.
There was also no tryst with the waitress, Lucy, either. She was just my waitress and wing cheerleader, not my escort for the evening.
So for those of you left wanting to muddle through this with me still, when we last left our hero, I was standing between Pickles and her consoling lover on one side and some behemoth on the other. There were several other wing eating contestants nearby too, but I’ve no clue what they were up to.
I had been schmutzed in the eye with Hiroshima wing sauce by Pickles the apparent lesbian, and after a noble yet ridiculously fruitless attempt by Lucy to douse the fire in my eye with ice water, I was left standing with tears rolling down my inflamed face and water all down the front of my body, looking as though I’d just peed myself.
Were cell phones as ubiquitous back then as they are now, there’d probably have been a sweet photo or Youtube video making the rounds on the internet with an interposed Sweet Brown commenting that she always got time for a wing eatin’ contest. Who doesn’t love wings, after all?
All of the waitresses counted the discarded wing bones to themselves (it was pretty disgusting that these ladies were basically rooting through discarded food eaten by mostly half drunk people, yes) and told the manager how many each person had eaten. That didn’t seem like a great way to tally the bones to me. You’d think they’d have used a second person to semi-verify the count, but what do I know?
I will end all suspense and just tell you that I won! I ate 36 wings in ten minutes. The next closest was like 24 or something like that. I was the MAN!
It didn’t dawn on me until later that I don’t think Lucy knew how to count wing bones though, because there was no way I ate that many wings. I think she was counting by twos or it’s possible that she was just stupid and made a number up, I don’t know. Who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth?
What was your gift for winning, Don?
Ah, I thought you might ask that, my friend.
My gift, much to Hooter’s eventual dismay, was that three people of my choice, and me, were given a couch in front of a big screen tv at Hooters to watch the Superbowl! That came with all the free wings and draft beer we could handle!
Holy crap, did you just say free beer?
I did, and 21 year old Don likey!!
And likey I did, for several hours…
The game was a total buzzkill. I don’t recall the score, but it was the year the 49ers absolutely trounced the Chargers.
I know, right, the Chargers made a Super Bowl?
Anyway, we were getting completely plowed as planned when the lovely Hooter’s girl, who was not Lucy, told us that she was going to have to cut us off.
“Uh, it’s not even half time, ma’am!” protesteth I.
“Well, you guys are being a little bit loud and I’m afraid my manager is getting annoyed.” said the waitress who was not Lucy.
“We’re watching a football game in a bar for Christ’s sake!”
Fortunately for myself, I was not at the point of drunk where my brain has already discarded any notion of consequences and stands eager to confront even the most logical arguments with inappropriate responses, so I didn’t erupt into a total inappropriate, foul mouthed lunkhead.
Instead, I calmly, though unsteadily on my feet, explained that we took a cab to the restaurant and we were taking one home as well. Nobody was drinking and driving and the prize was ALL THE BEER AND WINGS I COULD HANDLE, and I could still handle some. I may have mentioned that I wouldn’t tip her a single penny, if she cut us off too.
Well, Bubbles and her dimwitted manager in his “Delightfully Tacky Yet Refined” t-shirt commiserated for a few minutes and she came back with excellent news…we could continue to get hammered and eat wings till we died, as long as we behaved!
To spite Bubbles, we ordered enough wings to feed everyone in her section so that they didn’t have to order them from her, and we drank and drank and drank until the game finally (mercifully for San Diego fans) ended.
Was I a total douche? Probably, I was 21 years old and drunk. Did we make it through the entire game without vomiting or getting arrested? Barely.
Did we tip Bubbles handsomely for her troubles? Affirmative. She apologized for the “misunderstanding” about nearly cutting us off and we were all the best of friends when we left!
Has Hooters ever had a wing eating contest and let a 21 year old claim as much free beer as he can handle for several hours as a prize? I’d be shocked if they have.