Last night at planning and zoning I found myself once again in a conversation with a person who doggedly insisted that Hooters is a fine restaurant with great wings. WHY DO I ONLY KNOW HOOTERS CUSTOMERS? And they're always so pleased with themselves, like they're sticking it to The Man, fighting back against the narrow-minded prudes who are offended by the bastion of good taste that is Hooters. Look, liking Hooters does not mean you are open-minded, or progressive, or "sex-positive," or whatever garbage you're telling yourself . . . okay, it might mean you are sex-positive, I'm not going to work my way through all the possible meanings contained within that genital wart of a term. But to my point: I have not yet encountered a Hooters defender who doesn't let drop this gem: "Their wings are great!" Right. RIGHT. And I'm sure that's why you go there, instead of, say, all the other places that also serve reheated garbage food. Nothing to do with the boobs, I'm sure. Here's the thing: Hooters is a place where knuckle-dragging meatheads drool over their idea of the perfect woman: subservient, cosmetically enhanced, and bearing trays of the most American of American foods. If you eat at Hooters, you think women are objects, not people. It's as simple as that. What was most bizarre to me is that this man is a husband and father--a father of daughters, even. I'd always assumed that the Hooters clientele is composed mainly of bros and Matt Foleys. But nope. I am baffled by his cognitive compartmentalization. Whatever. He has the right to be a tacky pervert and I have the right to call a spade a spade.
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