A story for the archives

This one happened a few weeks back now--okay, maybe a couple months--but it's worth it (I think). My team from work and I went to the ballpark to catch a half-priced day game. Afterwards, by that I mean after six to eight beers, some friends got the bright idea that we should go out on the town for a happy hour--after all, the ballpark is located in San Diego's lustrious gas lamp/ booze quarter. So we hit a few bars, wander around looking for a hookah bar, and eventally make our way to dinner at an trendy Aussie restarant bar (after all, we didn't want to stray from our bar-themed evening). After dinner, my drunk posse is staggering around looking for more, and I remind them that our game ticket stubs get us ten buffalo wings at Hooters since the Pads scored more than ten runs in their win--final score was 11-0 (ouch). Don't know why I suggested this since we had just eaten dinner, but it seemed like a good idea at the time--yeah, I know, famous last words. Drunk as we were, I recall their in-unison, slurred reply, "Hell yeah, I want some wings!" So off we go.

We get to Hooters; at this point it is Sabo, Mel, Mike (Sabo's bro) and yo. First thing that happens is some one tells me ask if we get free wings with our stubs. I reply, "Won't we still drink here even if we don't get free wings." "Hell no, we wouldn't. I hate to break it to you, but we most certainly would not." Though, actually, I am pretty much done drinking for the night, so I am not sure why I even asked. I ask about the free wings, they say yes, and we are seated. Jizzelle or Jordana (some obvious "stage-named" waitress) comes by to take our orders. She's very cute: about 5'3, dark, straight hair, great hooters, pretty face. "So how many wings can we get with these?," I ask as I lay down three ticket stubs. "Thirty." Score. Everone's eyes get big. "Can I take your guys' drink and dinner orders?" "Just water for me." "Water," says Sabo, who is sitting across from me. "Water," says Mel. "Diet Pepsi." Fuckin' Mike. Once the waitress leaves, "Mike, why you gotta break the rhythm--we were all getting waters with our free wings." Turns out Mike didn't even bring money.

As we are waiting for our wings, Jordana is wiping the table behind us, and Sabo begins muttering in a deep voice, "Wings, wings, wings." Of course Jordana can hear. "Guys, your wings will be up in just a short bit." And without even a hint of sarcasm (I'm stunned), "Can I get you guys some more water?" Bless her heart, and sugary tits, how do you deliver that without sarcasm? Obviously she knows how to get a good tip--and I mean monetary tip, not penis, dip shit--though I'm sure she know how to get both, in retrospect. A deep sense of reality hits me as I realize I would never make much in tips as a waiter--aah, I probably would, actually, people are too nice and no one who's not expecting it ever get my sense of humour, any way. Probably could have left out that "not expecting it" part.

I bet Sabo 20 bills to ask the waitress, "Where's our free wings, bitch!?" "Actually," I say, "better leave out the 'bitch' part. Just say, 'Where's our goddamn free wings?!' " Yes, that's better. Sabo declines.

Our wings come. Oh, glorious day! We each eat one wing. We stare at the plate of twenty-six remaining wings. Then back at each other. I break the silence, "You know, I'm not really all that hungry." I see a moment of clarity in Sabo's eyes. "You know, I'm not hungry either--we ate quite a bit at dinner." "Okay, who here IS hungry?," I ask. No one. No one is hungry.

Me: "Well, should we just leave a tip and leave? I think that would be hillarious, personally. All that trouble, and we leave our nearly uneaten plate of wings just sitting here." Sabo turns to an adjacent table, "Hey, guys, you want some wings." Of course they don't, jerk. Jordanna comes by after a bit. "Can I get you guys anything else? More water?" Still no sarcasm. (How?) "Maybe a box for the wings." Though, in truth, no one wants these wings, tasty as they are, but I suggest, "Maybe we can give them to a homeless person." "Should we put some ranch dressing in the box?," Sabo asks. "Well, yes," I say. "Would you take free wings if you were homeless knowing full well there was no dipping sauce. I think not. Hell, I can just picture the trasaction now: 'Sir, would you like some chicken wings.' 'Wait a minute, what type of dipping sauce, ranch or blue cheese.' 'Er, um, er, we didn't get any sauce to-go.' 'Fuck you damn kids and your charity. You make baby Jesus weep.' " The fantasy homeless man is right. We part ways with Jordana and Hooters. I leave a generaous tip and enough to help cover the Pepsi. Fucking Mike.

And what do you know, just as we leave, there is a bum just sitting there outside of the building next to Hooters. Mel appraches, "Sir would you like some Buffalo wings." "No, I already got me some!," he points to a take-out box sitting beside him. Rejected by the bum, just like I had forseen. Sabo then gets the brilliant idea to offer the wings to every, and I mean every, passerby. Drunk fool. He then proceeds to offer the wings to a mailbox, a lamp post, and a bicycle. No luck, surprisingly. Though he did get a phone number from the lamp post in the process, some how. In fact, I think they are still seeing each other. We end up leaving the wings next to a trash can. And we part ways. Sabo has a designated driver (thank God), and I walk Mel most of the way back to her car. So ends the story of the best buffalo wing (singular) I ever had.