Tonight I took the family (wife, 15 year old drama daughter and 10 year old son) to Hooters for a quick dinner. Don’t judge me. The girls like the wings, the boy likes curly fries and me – I like the cold beer. DON’T judge me.
Back to the story. Ten year old needs to take a leak. His mom, that’d be my wife, insists that I go with him. Pretty pointless in my opinion since he’s been pissing standing up since he was two. But what the Hell, I go. The room is empty when we get there, but while he and I are draining the snakes it fills up. Not a big deal.
One of the guys is a big honking ass boy. This guy’s topping the scales at 400+ pounds. Talking Biggest Loser contestant next season. Bob/Jillian this guy needs you. Both urinals are occupied (me and THE BOY) and the two stalls are full. Like I said, it filled up fast. Big Boy waits it out until my son finishes. Kid has a bladder bigger than his head, it takes a couple of minutes to go empty. Anyway, Big Boy is all about using the urinal that’s only two feet off the ground. Seems weird to me, then I get the brain flash – his gut hangs out too far for him to aim his junk over the regular urinal. Sad. Real sad.
Then it gets worse. THE BOY is washing his hands (only one sink here) for the full 30 seconds that the school health worker insists he must. The guys coming out of the stalls are cool with this. Most guys are cool about littler guys needing some extra time.
By now Big Boy is done and got his pants zipped back up. (Did I mention that he’s wearing a tie and is at a table full of suits, clearly wrapping up a business meeting over beer and boobs? No? Well, I should have told you that first.) He stands behind THE BOY for all of five seconds. Then shakes his head and walks out. WITHOUT WASHING HIS NASTY PISS COVERED HANDS. My guy finishes drying his hands and reaches out for the door handle. I tell him to use a towel because Big Boy didn’t wash. At which point one of the other guys washing up says “yeah, nasty bastard” or similar words. My guy is grossed out.
We get back to the table and I point out Big Boy to the ladies and tell the said story. They are grossed out. Our waitress (named T.C. by the way – and no my wife did not like me noticing that. But it’s hard not to. Those name tags are bright orange. But back to the point, if there still is one.) comes by with the check, I throw down the AMEX gold card and we’re on our way.
BUUUUUUUUT – on the way out we walk by Big Boy’s table. The meeting is breaking up and there’s hand shakes all around. At this point I pause to say something, but figure what the fuck, and keep moving. We get the car loaded and are headed out of the parking lot, when I see the guy that was clearly in charge of Big Boy’s group. He’s got the Jos. A. Bank overcoat on with matching scarf that’s coordinated to go with his suit. Classy guy. I can’t help myself.
I wheel the car over to him and roll down the window. He leans in, looking like he’s looking to see if I’m serial killer, and I tell him not to stick his fingers in his mouth. He looks at me like I’m a nut job. I tell him the story. He flips his lid right there in the parking lot. We pull off, laughing our asses off at his expression. In my mirror I see him telling one of the other guys from his party.
Big Boy is going to be known as “piss hands” at the office from now on. And his boss will know why.
I gotta admit it. Rachel Ray really grinds my gears, and not at all in a good way. That whiny little girl voice and perky energy while pretending to cook 18 course meals in 30 minutes with out fucking up her kitchen. It’s too much to deal with. And just once can’t she cook something that I might accidentally have all the ingredients for, without having to scour every foodie dive in DC to find?
Which is all good and fine cause there are plenty of guys out there that are into bimbos with a trunk full of junk. Or a mini-van with the back seats thrown down for the extra weight. Your call.
I had more to comment here...
