The Orange Parade

"We were liars in love and we danced, swept away for a moment by chance, and we danced" The Hooters from "And We Danced.

The nurse is off today in celebration of the pagan holiday. This leaves me medication free and wondering about the world outside my wire mesh covered window. The world that drove me to insanity on a short bus. The world filled with strange behaviors on mass scales.

One of these behavioral oddities is on display daily at the unlikliest of places, a franchise eatery. One with top heavy honeys in physics defying hosery and orange shorts the size of a Tic Tac. You know the place.

Upon entering the local owl disguised jiggly room, a fresh faced Southern girl, complete with "Hey Y’All" accent, helps herself to aa seat at the table. This is too make my accomplice and I feel like we are more than just 20% tippers, we are flirt worthy. Her mandated kindness must be on a stop watch timer, since she wastes precious little time chatting before procuring our drink order. As she scurries off into what we imagine to be a secret back room pillow fight for our affections, our server is sure of two things. We are watching her ass as she hustles off and we are now taking inventory of which girls station we wish we had taken up residency.

REturning with our "Man-Sized" vats of gorg she queries our readiness to order some of their meatless chicken wings. Where are the AShley Olsen thin chickens being raised, I wonder. And what’s the point of being King Kamehameha of the food chain if the lower orders are all PETA friendly? We pass on the wings and decide on burgers just as the floor show begins. This is where the creepy factor really comes into play.

The gals line up like a jaundiced can-can and dance a particularly bouncy jig. You want to look, to stare, but since the poor gilr was just sitting at your table and has a look in her eyes like a bored fuck doll, you can’t watch. You check the score on the Women’s hoops game that you care nothing about or you find something on the table so mesmerizing it requires your full attention. Thank Jeebus the song is faded out faster than a five dollar lap dance and you are free to ogle once again, shame free.

But the damage is done. She is no longer the pop tart with the great rack, now she is "Poor Demeaned Sally". It’s all about the warp speed exodus after that. The tip is bigger than you anticipate, enlarged by guilt and sympathy. And as you walk out, the next set of suckers stroll in pie-eyed with enthusiasm. It’s all a scam.

So I ask you. Is this a subversive way of getting back at men? Do you women out there think less of a gal for working there? What sneaky way do you use guilt on the opposite sex?

Dixie Cup of Love: Hookers, for doing the whole job without all the guilt.

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