All-You-Can-Eat Wings

Tuesday nights mean all-you-can-eat wings at my Hooters.  This means that all sorts of hungry people come out of the woodwork to stuff their faces for $12.99.  I'm pretty sure there are few things more American.  God bless the U.S. of A.!  Whatever.  As I was saying, Tuesday nights mean you can get all the wings your tummy can handle for just $12.99.  Delicious, greasy goodness.

Generally all-you-can-eat equates to twenty wings.  Served in plates of ten, four times out of five people will usually just order two plates.  Sometimes people order three.  More than three plates is a rarity indeed.  Basically what all this means is that we usually get rid of lots of wings and still make money.  Yeah, not as much as we normally would perhaps, but whatever.  A man still has to drink his money away, right?

Last week I sold my share of wings.  And most people hardly took advantage.  As usual the twenty wing limit ruled the evening.  People's eyes just seem to be bigger than their stomachs.  Then the linemen came in.  Eight huge, collegiate linemen with hunger in their eyes and less than twenty bucks in their pockets.  It was evident right away that these guys were here to eat some wings.  Of course by eat I actually mean destroy.  Yes, these guys were here to destroy some wings.  I wisely notified the kitchen.

Ten at time the wings flew out of the sell window at speeds previously unheard of.  Almost as quickly as the wings appeared at the table, the mountain of bones grew.  Naturally, being manly type men who enjoy visualizing their conquests, not a bone was allowed to be cleared from the table.  No pre-busing allowed.  Annoying.  Yes.  Amazing.  Damn right.

Slowly, men began to drop out.  It seems even a lineman can only handle so many wings.  Stomachs were full and happy, but a few were out to prove something.  A few were ready to make both wings and friends their little bitches.  Finally, there were only two in a race to eat the most wings.  And eat they did.  Plates and plates of wings.  And the bone mountain grew.

Eventually the pace slowed and pain set in.  One finally dropped the white flag of surrender.  He'd finished eighty wings.  Being a real man, it was decided that the last competitor would have to finish one more serving for the win.  Ten more wings and he had stomached ninety hot wings.  But what is ninety?  Ninety is just some number that is way more than fifty but not quite 100.  Ninety is a number for pussies.   Why not go for 100 and be a real man?

That's right, last Tuesday I witness a man eat 100 wings.  I was disgustingly inspired.  As such I made him a one of a kind award - a wing plate emblazoned with "I ate 100 wings @ Hooters" in permanent marker.  A real family heirloom to hand down to the kids for generations.  We also gave him a t-shirt.  And a prime spot on our photo "Wall of Shame."  And what I can only imagine is the painful satisfaction of 100 wings.  All for $12.99.  I wonder who got the best end of that deal.

When all was done the eight linemen put down 680 wings.  At $12.99 a piece.  That's 680 wings for $103.92.  Savvy shopping, boys.

Hopefully I'll see you tonight, my linemen.  That's if you've awoken from your food comas yet of course.