It must be nice to make the cut above Hooters waitress. Your soul smells less like fried chicken. I’d scalpel, insert, freeze, super-size, inject, and satanically murder whatever it took to reach the rung where you got bathrobes and director’s chairs on breaks instead of a guy named Carlos trying to massage your sideboob. I probably wouldn’t let Dana White in my shorts, but a few Tuesday nights slinging wings for tips might change my mind.
Photo Credit: Alan Dawe