Hooters was always the joke last-resort in high school and summers between semesters of college. If Borders doesn't hire me, I'll just work at Hooters. Man, if Oberweis and Old Navy don't want me I'm going to have to work at Hooters. Ewww, don't work at Hooters. Get a job at Chuck E Cheese!
Please note my rack has never been stacked. I've got enough to fill a wine-glass, sure- but not a margarita glass the size of a meathead. Hooters has never realistically been an option for me or most of my friends. Still, it was there. The last place on earth I would ever want to work, but would dutifully drag myself to if I ever got knocked up or something and/or had to let go of a more noble daily grind to Make Ends Meet.
Now I look in the mirror and toss mirthless laughs at the pale, quirky reflection staring back at me. I have new last resort options. Opening my own chain of franchise restaurants featuring girls in flirty print frocks, thick-rimmed glasses, toting requisite (conversationally) titillating copies of Dorothy Parker stories and Bruce Springsteen records while serving slobbering onlookers buffalo wings and bourbons, or going back in time to star in German Expressionist films.
There's more money in the restaurant. I think I'll call it Zooey's.
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