I opened the door and was immediately greeted by two scantily clad waitresses who subsided on a steady diet of ice, crackers, and jolly ranchers for dessert. With backs arched and glitter covering almost every pore they welcomed me to the establishment. I quickly scanned the joint wondering if I were to catch a glimpse of my party. There were a few bikers, but mostly it was filled with twenty-thirty something middle class gents swilling cheap beer that isn't fit for man nor beast. Some are there having guy time, making guy small talk, and ordering guy food. Some had a token female at their table, but I couldn't help but think they were in tow if only to make a vain attempt at looking cool.
The waitresses might as well have tossed aside what little clothing they had on and just served the drooling masses naked. As I joined my party we were greeted by a tall girl that had the name 'Stretch' scribed on her name tag. Why it was there is anyone's guess. She could've written "I have sodomized the Pope" and few would have noticed. She was gangley with boobs that rival those of an eleven year old and little was going on behind those eyes. She complained to us that there was a table full of foreigners near us and she couldn't decipher their accents, so in Mickey Rooney fashion Stretch imitated their grasp on the English language. She seemed very upset that they "didn't speak American."
I pondered the masculine ideal of the American dream being present at this restaurant. Men flirting and being given attention by skinny women with ugly tattoos and daddy issues is hardly a new concept, but what would Hunter do? Do I embrace my fellow males who hold on to the shallow hope that one of these girls would actually talk to them outside of this place? It was like I was surrounded with Glenn Beck fans and each server was Sarah Palin. It was time to drink amongst the Dukes of Hazzard memorabilia and the smell of light beer. Drink I did.
"Feminine virtue is nothing but a convenient masculine invention." - Ninon de Lenclos