Suburbank: Tales of Hooters --  The High Price of Turnover

Suburbank: Tales of Hooters — The High Price of Turnover

hootersLookie here! A new kid wants in at our watering hole, so vilely despised by office fraus that we refer it exclusively as “the place” or risk sexual harassment.

We’re going to take this one scriptless. Let’s see how many of these waitresses remember us from last time.

In we go. It’s a little like a barnyard scene with the cocks crowing and the floppy uttered cows mooing and some of the pigs scurrying for the comfort of their filth. I enjoy it for what it is. I intend to have these girls service drinks on my yacht when I get around to buying one. Ah, the center table. Fabulous. The regular girl behind the bar has a nice smile. She blew us off but three months ago when we encountered her in the wild of the nearby parking garage. (Burbank is a compact little place.) But something is different. Yes, yes… she has reasoned it out. We’re those guys. Now bend over and let’s see ’em. That’s right. We’re those guys.

But what is this! Not one more familiar face! Out of twenty-five, only three we know! (And we know they’re all taken.) My Sly SAGman (like an Ombudsman) mentions that they need to put up posters on the wall with all the relevant info: Actress, Dancer, Singer, Model, Available, Silicone or Saline, etc. The waitress is chipper with agreemency! She dazzles us with a new trick. She will memorize our order without writing it down. Okay. I’ll have the tube sock, er, steak, and lettuce and onions and… no, no I want a hot dog with chili and onions and muskrat juice and your phone number… wait… come back to me…

Two more check in. They bend low in obeisance and tell us about gigs fallen through at PAX and Disney. Hmmm. It’s tough. It’s a garsh-darn tough world out there. You need someone who’s been to the trenches on a horse with no name and a knowledge of the universe in which we reside. I am such a man. Your hand. Ah. Soft. You have a long love line. Yes, I excel at palmistry. What is this! Unexpected wealth at forty-eight! We must be married immediately!

No! To the mystery of this accused place! What happened? Is there another rival meat blimp emporium swaddling up the honeys for closed clientele? A tittie bar with a lunchtime buffet? Maybe we should go there.


We inquire of our Hooters mole when the rapture was. Most of these pinched little numbers are auditioning or attending university. I think she says one of our notables from last time is going for her Masters in Boob Administration (I have a minor in that discipline), but I have a hearing problem.

The others… well, screw ’em. I like turnover. She brings us all our vittles and me, a glass of water with a nice slice of lemon. Thanks for playing. Good night, and in case I don’t see you, good afternoon, good morning, and good day.