Hooters? Depressing? You don’t say. All I’ve ever had to do was take a look at the horrible orange and white paint job adorning the outside of most Hooters restaurants to know those places are a bevy of bad taste and depression.

Oh yeah, and fifteen year olds.

In my town, Hooters was the place adolescent boys with fake IDs and too much cologne spent their Friday nights when no one their own age would date them.

Hooters was the place high school’s biggest assholes went to feel superior to women who would never look at them in real life, as well as the place a friend’s friend once tried to work at but quit after some perv threw a popcorn shrimp at her boobs.

In conclusion: Hooters is drenched in grossness. Read More »