Hooters Girls

He was a big, black guy. That may sound like a bland description, but, in fact, the phrase ‘big black guy’ is potent and ubiquitous enough to induce fear in about 87% of all white people because, when used in a story around the watercooler, it usually precedes somebody getting hurt. So when said big, black guy approached me angrily with a clenched fist, I had to rethink my Jaeger-bomb-loosened lips’ word choices… once again. He raised his hand. There was going to be a bar fight….

As Dane Cook might say, let me ‘Tarantino’ this story a little bit.

On the last day of my tour for I HOPE THEY SERVE BEER IN HELL, I met up with Tucker Max at the Sandbar in Salt Lake City. After almost 2 months of continuous bars in contiguous states, I was probably, admittedly, at the end of my tether with women. Well, not just women, a certain TYPE of woman: specifically, sluts.

If you visibly blanched at that word, I don’t blame you. It’s a mean word and should only be applied to sluts, and their subset, skanks. (nota bene: A skank is a slut without money or class. How can a slut have class, you ask? Ask Angelina Jolie.)

When I arrived at Sandbar, Tucker was surrounded by three HOOTERS girls. I’m not exactly sure what it means to be a ‘Hooters girls,’ because the motley crew of 3 women — a little Mexican, a hippy bleach blonde, and an impossibly tall and busty brunette with, perhaps, an adam’s apple — didn’t seem to measure up to any discernible standard. unless slut is a standard. Well, technically, they work for tips, so they’re more like whores, but that’s a completely different discussion that might devolve into a debate on Capitalism.

I took a deep breath and introduced myself with a smile and a handshake. These three ladies had been sending MMS boob pic texts to Tucker all night in the finger-crossing hopes of being one of the thousand women to bone him, so my presence wasn’t really much concern to them anyway. The bleachie and the tranny were doing figure eights and peacocking for Tucker. Intermittently, they would walk away and text to ‘seem’ unavailable, but they’d swoop back and shimmy for Tucker then drift away, etc, etc.

Why did I come? I thought…. I have no interest in being in a bar in SLC late on a Tuesday and I definitely have no interest trying to convince a HOOTERS GIRL that i’m worth the walk back to my motel.

“Hey, you should buy me and my friend a shot.” It was the little Mexican girl, flashing a cute little smile that I instinctively knew had served her well over the years.

“What are you talking about?” I said, sincerely confused.

“Buy me and my friend a shot.”

“No. Are you out of your mind? I’m not some douchebag getting a boner because you’re talking to me. Why don’t you buy me a shot?”

That’s when I noticed her engagement ring.

“Holy shit! And you’re engaged. You are, in a nutshell, why men HATE women; trying to get me to buy you drinks when you’re engaged? Ugh.”

She coquettishly bit her lower lip and flipped her hair in that packaged shy way. For some reason, it angered me. Not because I almost fell for it — but because I couldn’t help but flashback to an alternate 22 year old BILL DAWES that would have fallen for it and ended up alone with Herpes 3-5 days later.

That’s when I noticed the tats and piercings on all three of the HOOTERS girl. I couldn’t help but notice the tats and the piercings on all these girls. It made perfect sense that they had them. I’m not saying that all tatted girls are sluts, but I’ve never seen the Chinese symbol for ‘Abstinence.’

However, I have noticed that message of the tattoo is almost always inversely proportional to how messed up the woman is.

A nice Christian sorostitute trying to break free from mom and dad might get a tattoo of a sexy panther or a dragon or maybe a scandalous Betty Boop pin-up tat. Look at me, I’m wild! she says to the world.

This engaged woman had a tat of a cross on her neck and sundry symbols of peace and enlightenment. Right away, I knew she was horribly damaged.

Often, when I see the girl with a sentence wrapping around her torso that says something like “peace and love and everlasting happiness in a rainbow of kittens and butterflies and puppies in a bed of roses,” the following conversation ensues:

“When you get that?”

“Oh, after my first abortion.”

Sometimes, the tats are a map of molestations, and the stories sound like a crazy game of Clue. “That was my Uncle in the living room with a Candlestick…. I’m not ready to talk about with happened with Professor Plum..”

At some point, drinks served their purpose and lubricated the cranky wheels of conversation and the little Mexican started talking a lot. Suddenly, she informed me her dad was an Indian chief

“Wait, you’re not Mexican?” I asked.

“No, I’m half Cherokee.”

“Be honest, you’re just saying that to be cool. I get it — you moved to Salt Lake and decided to reinvent yourself as some Featherhead Pocahantas because you didn’t want people to think you’re Mexican.”

“I’m not Mexican.”

“Tell your face that.”

“What does that even mean.” She was dumb. dumb enough to accept a small pox blanket and a bottle of booze for 50,000 acres dumb? Hard to tell.

“The closest your dad came to being an Indian was banging another Mexican dishwasher working at an Indian casino.”

Without warning, the girl started crying.

After much apologizing, she told me that her dad was in fact an Indian chief who had been horribly murdered ten years ago to the day. She even opened her purse and produced a wrinkled newspaper article detailing the horror. I felt like a speck of fly shit on a mound of horse dung. I bought her two shots. I made her laugh. I listened.

We had a nice hug and then I went to the bathroom… which is where the trouble started. The little Indian told her friend bleachie who told busty brunette who, in turn, told ‘big black guy.’ By the time I did my shake and shiver and walked back into the bar, there was a veritable posse about to run me out of town — the only thing missing was the torches.

The big, black guy was in my face first, hand raised, ready to strike. So I did what any man would do in that situation. I lied.

“What’s happening?” I said.

“You disgraced the memory of this poor girl’s father by making fun of his death.”

“Oh no, that wasn’t me, that was my friend — he’s outside. Let me get him.”

In the brief moment of confusion, I was outside on the patio, then outside on the sidewalk, then crossing the street, looking over my shoulder the whole way.

I promised, in that instant, NEVER to insult a woman, even unintentionally, ever again; the fission reaction they can set off with their tears can lead to the Enola Gay of beatdowns.

So never again… until the next time.

This entry was posted on Thursday, November 5th, 2009 at 3:28 pm and is filed under All blog entries. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.