Suburbank: Tales of Hooters – “Maneater”
I am the Burbank Booby Genius. Attend my genius, and learn.
I go to the Hooters of Burbank with my SAG card wielding Ombudsman every Friday. It is without a doubt that we have a scheme to pick up one of the waitresses — usually as a producer or actor of some invisible and unproven merit — but this time, this time I achieved something like anaphylactic shock to think of something so criminally fun and irresistible to these meat nymphs.
There, at the table, we sat sipping our drinks and making suggestive eye contact with the staff when I noticed my partner making clumsy conversation with a disinterested party. I don’t know where I get my ideas, but it was time to call in a surreal cerebral air strike and straighten this out. With booming, stentorian aplomb, I said, “I’ve been thinking a lot about you. I want to dress you up in a piranha outfit for a commercial I want to shoot at house in front of a green screen.”
She heard the word piranha and leaned in. I believe most piranhas have freckles on their bosoms, so I was almost there. Ah, the crew grimaced. I’m out on a limb. Will I jump? No. She’ll jump. She’ll jump into my arms. The word piranha made her molecules get all funny.
“You want to see me in a piranha outfit?”
Yes. Your face in piranha makeup, no clothes over the shoulders. We hear Hall and Oates’s “Man Eater”, whoa here she comes… tum tum tum, tum tum tadum… I want you to be swimming in front of the green screen, minding your own piranha business, when something dangles over the far left side of the hypothetical fish tank. You see it! It’s a man! A man made out of Slim Jims!”
Laughter. I said to my partner with my eyebrows raising and lowering in code, “Watch this. I’ll have them all over hear petitioning for our phone numbers.”
“Oh. My . Gawd! That’s so funny! Oh. My Gawd.”
The Oh My Gawd First Alert signal pulls all Hooters waitresses to our table to the scowls of local firemen. Player, play on!
“You become incensed with hunger! You perniciously bite and chomp your way over to him and start lashing out at it and biting at him — gnakk! gnakk! — until you have him like a pinch of Skoal’s Bandits between your lip and gum. Then tear him asunder. Cut to graphic. OUT. Thirty seconds. It can’t miss. What do you think. Wanna do it?”
Oh. My. Gawd. Where did you get this idea? Did you just think of it here? Are you serious? You want me to do this? Oh my Gawd. That’s so nuts! You’re serious? When did you want to do this?”
I think, perhaps, some of my claims resonate as fiction in the ears of my colleagues. This couldn’t be further from fact. I rarely, if ever, deviate one micrometer’s measurement from titful truthfuls of the Hooterotic. I don’t have to.