Hooters: Eat Fried Food, Feel the Misery

Hooters? Depressing? You don’t say. All I’ve ever had to do was take a look at the horrible orange and white paint job adorning the outside of most Hooters restaurants to know those places are a bevy of bad taste and depression.

Oh yeah, and fifteen year olds.

In my town, Hooters was the place adolescent boys with fake IDs and too much cologne spent their Friday nights when no one their own age would date them.

Hooters was the place high school’s biggest assholes went to feel superior to women who would never look at them in real life, as well as the place a friend’s friend once tried to work at but quit after some perv threw a popcorn shrimp at her boobs.

In conclusion: Hooters is drenched in grossness.

On a recent trip to the 56th street Hooters in New York City for their 10 year celebration, the hilarious bloggers at Gawker explained—through quotes and pictures—why this place is never to be visited by healthy, socially content individuals.

After admitting that most of the waitresses “weren’t very good lookingâ€?, the team at Gawker interviewed a Hooters Girl named Shanell.

The way her perkiness slips away at the faintest prodding is about as sad as watching a puppy shiver in a rainstorm.

“â€?How does Shanell like working at Hooters? “it’s fun,â€? she said. But after a second of consideration, her smile wilted. “It’s all right.â€? And later in the conversation: “It’s strange.â€?â€?

Wearing high-waisted short shorts and a tight-shirt while serving fried shrimp to red-faced men in business suits is surely an assigned activity in one of the seven circles of hell.

Not only are you allowing dudes to stare at you like a sex object, you’re asking them to, because hopefully, the more they like your boobs, the bigger your tip will be.

Somewhere in this great United States of America, there are people who will defend Hooters. 89% of those people will be men. Who are overweight. Or wear too much hair gel.

But they will defend it nonetheless; crusading against the sad truth that these restaurants are lame, tacky versions of strip clubs—without the added benefit of nakedness.

Save your soul. Eat your chicken wings somewhere else.