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Friday, October 24, 2003
I angled over to the counter sideways, with all the anxiety of a teenager asking
for a porn video.
“Hi,” I said meekly to the Delta Airlines attendant. “Do
you know where the Hoo…” my voice trailed off. I was too mortified.
“The what?”
“The Hoo…” I cleared my throat. Come on, I thought, be brave.
“The Hooters Air gate,” I said. “Do you know where it is?”
Please, I thought, don’t yell for help the way a video clerk would: “Hey,
Marty, do we have any more copies of ‘Ass Master & the Double-Headed
Dildo Wars?’”
Mercifully, he didn’t. He pointed to the counter across the way, which
Hooters sublets from Delta.
“Thanks for not laughing,” I said, gathering my confidence. The
man explodes in laughter.
I scurried across the terminal.
“Do you have a seating preference?” asked the Hooters ticketing
agent. “Yes,” I said. “Do you have anything in cleavage?”
“No,” the attendant chuckles, “How about an exit row? It’s
not as comfortable but there’s more leg-room.”
AS I WAITED at the gate I thought, “Now why would a restaurant chain
start an airline?” The answer came when one of the Hooters Girls walked
by: To milk its biggest assets.
Hooters knew it couldn’t get an airline off the ground by itself so
it partnered with a small but experienced passenger airliner: Pace Air. It’s
a kind of “Lift & Separate” operating agreement. Pace was lifted
out of obscurity and Hooters was salvaged from actually having to run an airline.
Mercifully, the Hooters Girls aren’t flight attendants. They’re
more like Wal-Mart greeters hired from a strip club. Pace provides the crew;
Hooters provides the view.
I winced when I saw the 737 plane pulling into the gate. It looked like Anna
Nicole Smith slapped Tammy Faye Baker and all the makeup sprayed onto the fuselage.
Apparently, Tammy Faye then hung Anna’s assets out to dry. Thus, the
signature Hooters look: two giant boobs resting on the nose of a garish owl.
A Hooters Girl greets me as I enter the jetway. “Welcome aboard!” she
says, as I reflexively dig into my pocket for a tip. She’s wearing the
classic company uniform: Next to nothing.
I walked onto the plane, surprised to find extra legroom and leather seats.
I strap myself in, convinced I’m going to die. The odds were not in my
favor: Bad weather, voluptuous women, male pilots.
I watch one of the Hooters Girls strap herself in. I’ve never seen leather
look so happy. The stewardess recommends putting our nose and mouth in it and
breathing deeply. I assume she means the oxygen mask.
We take off. The wind and rain make the plane shake, rattle and roll. I’m
scared. What if the pilots can’t keep it airborne without a lap dance?
I pray the pilots are gay.
We make it through the bad weather. The seatbelt sign illuminated, indicating
it was safe to stare at the Hooters Girls. One of them sees an empty seat next
to me and chats me up.
“DON’T STARE AT her breasts,” I think to myself.
She asked me how I’m doing. “Fine,” I said without looking
at her breasts. She was very nice, actually. She jabbered on and all I could
think is, “Don’t look at her breasts, don’t look at her breasts,
for God’s sake, don’t look at her—”
My eyes fell like a watermelon off the 40th floor. Now what? How do I look
her in the eyes without looking like a pig? For once, I feel the straight man’s
pain.
Just then she stood up to conduct a trivia contest. She never asked the most
relevant question: “In case of an emergency how many Hooters Girls do
you have to grab to make a flotation device?”
We landed safely, and I couldn’t help but wonder if Falcon Videos will
be the next T&A company to look at the P&Ls of starting an airline.
After all, their boys know how to say “Welcome aboard” and mean
it.
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