Weekly Shocks' Blog



‘Cause living in Manhattan isn’t bizarre enough.

I’m currently working on a story about a guy who gets abducted by aliens while on a fishing trip with his brother. It’s very dramatic and serious. No, really. Stop laughing. It’s totally serious.

OK, I lied: it’s a goofy mess. But I promise: no anal probes. Unless you guys insist. Then anal probes for everyone!

I probably need to be medicated.

Anyway, the story opens up with my adorable protagonist in the Manhattan Hooters with his somewhat less than adorable brother who bullies him into going there. I discovered there was a Hooters in Manhattan a few years ago while on a trip with friends. One member of our ‘we’re-obviously-not-from-’round-these-parts-so-please-don’t-steal-our-shoes’ gang spotted the Hooters as if it were some beacon of light in a swirling darkness of cacophony and confusion. And it sort of was, I guess. I mean, Hooters. In Manhattan. This quintessential, middle America, vaguely offensive yet comforting symbol of bland food, tasteless beer, and stereotypical, giggling gender roles in perhaps the most modern, cynical, hard, and shiny city on earth. It’s so typically not New York and therefore so typically New York. Severe cognitive dissonance. What the hell, man.

Our friend with the Hooters’ radar meekly suggested we have lunch there that afternoon. He was subsequently shouted down and beaten with sticks. I mean, this is New York, and it was summer, so you can see all the jiggly things you like for free on the street. Why pay for it and subject yourself to crappy wings and watery beer in the bargain? Stupid boy. But the incident stuck in my brain like a lot of other inconsequential incidents, and every once in a while, I drain my skull of all this crap and put the incidents in the weirdo junk I write. Again, I probably need to be medicated, but this is cheaper.

There is a point to this whole thing, sort of. I was telling a friend about the story I was writing, because, really, there’s nothing cooler than saying, “Yeah, I’m working on my story,” unless it’s “Yeah, I’m working on my novel.” I’ve received so many grins of slack-jawed wonder from cute guys this way. It’s totally awesome; I ain’t gonna lie. Anyway. I was chatting away in that insufferably nonchalant, self-important manner that I imagine all unpublished humorists have, and then my friend told me something that knocked the breath right out of my unnecessarily inflated lungs:

Me: “Yeah, my story, you know, it’s so trendy, so relevant, so now, you know? It’s wicked. The opening takes place in the NYC Hooters.”

Friend: “I know a guy who used to live in the apartment complex above that place.”

Me: “There’s an apartment complex above Hooters?”

Friend: “Yup.”

Me: “You’re shitting me, right?”

Friend: “Nope.”

Me: “…”

Friend: “I believe the phrase you’re looking for is ‘What the f*ck?!'”

Really. What the f*ck.

Imagine telling people you live above a Hooters. Imagine the variety of responses you’d get. Holy cow. Holy COW.

But, see, this is New York. So, it makes perfect sense. Sort of, not really? Yes? No? What the hell do I know, anyway?

In a callback to a previous post, bugger me sideways.

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Comments

  1. * Jessica says:

    Above Hooters? HOLY C.O.W.

    (sarcasm…dripping sarcasm…)

    Posted 7 years, 10 months ago
  2. * PoopChute says:

    Anal Probes for Everyone would be a good name for a rock band. Or it could be a catchy campaign slogan.

    Nice blog.

    Posted 7 years, 10 months ago
  3. * WeeklyShocks says:

    Cheers, PoopChute, nice name. Your anal probe is on the house.

    Posted 7 years, 10 months ago


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