Dave and Connie got hitched without a hitch. Sadly, they have since come unhitched.
Did you see the paper this morning, Connie? The firemen and the strippers in the van, cruising the west side looking for hookers for a bachelor party? I was thinking, for Dave’s party…
No! Absolutely not. If you…If I hear about…No way…I hold you personally responsible…!!!
Having secured Connie’s full consent to work my wicked ways on her groom, I set out to plan a party. Unfortunately, while I retain the splendor of my youth - I was fat and bald at twenty, and have worked hard to so maintain myself - my contemporaries, all on their own and without me, have gone and turned forty. Not owning a defibrillator, it seemed prudent to dole out the depravity in carefully measured doses. I decided a dinner party at Hooters would be piling the fun right up to the partygoers’ load limit. Walking all the way over to the wild side, I ordered a special cake for dessert.
The cake was the creation of Deerfields, the family bakery since 1886. I told them it was for a bachelor party, and though they couldn’t give me a preview, I took a chance on the “triple x” model. Came the day of the party, and the cake was ready. It was a beauty. They, prudently, did not have the cake out on display where all the little cookies buying pastries with their mommies could eyeball it, but I was allowed a peek before the box was sealed. The cake was sculpted into a torso of a naked woman. It was a yellow cake, with white icing. Pink icing and chocolate sprinkles provided necessary anatomical detail. A risqué inscription I had contributed (“Here you go Dave! Last chance to eat out!”) was etched across her belly and thighs. With all the icing deployed to make her buxom, if looking at her didn’t stop Dave’s heart, eating her might.
I arrived at Hooters early, and turned over the cake to Greg the manager, who promised to keep her cool until the big finale. Soon, the guests arrived. Incredibly, none of this band of epicures had eaten in a Hooters. They took in the fine wood fixtures, the polished brass fittings, and gasped in awed appreciation at the ambiance (“My God! It’s like they’re running around in their underwear!”). Cranking up the dial on the debauchery meter, they did it all. They ordered the wings “hot!” They made insensitive comments about the photos on the walls. They drank caffeinated soda - without a straw!
I had led them to the brink of the brimstone pit, to where they could sniff the sulfur fumes. Reeling with the intoxicating scent, our revelers threatened to party on into the night. But then, in the wee small hours, about , their stamina flagged. Muttering about rising early to reformat their hard drives, they reached for their coats. Wait, I said, what about dessert?
The big moment had arrived. The Hooters girls would descend on our table, crown our guest of honor, and serenade his departure from bachelorhood by singing “Going To The Chapel.” Then, they would bring out the cake. Surprise!
Disaster! Jennifer, our waitress, whispered to me that Bill, the general manager, had arrived, and decreed there would be no cake. Quickly, I hurried off to plead for my cake. To no avail.
“You’re right next to a window.” True, but anyone skulking through the mud and dark to peep at my food would have some fancy explaining to do.
“We have a corporate image to protect. We don’t allow strippers in here either.” Bill, it’s a cake. Granted she looks saucy and impudent, but she’s really quite demure. I offer my personal bond that she won’t cavort on table tops, or lurch brazenly through your restaurant offending the patrons.
“I have to think of the girls. They would see the cake when they brought it to the table.” I admitted defeat. Like the Harvey Girls of song and story, the Hooters Girls would be nothing without their innocence. Unprotected from the cakes of this world, they might soon conclude that all the nice men in their restaurant, all those protective big brothers and kindly uncles, harbored unseemly urges and unbridled lusts. Anything to spare them.
cake might be in the box, but the cat was out of the bag. Jennifer, like
Pandora, just had to know what was in the box. Fiend that I am, I showed her.
Soon, one had told another, and the waitresses were lining up to look. Not
since Marcellus Wallace dispatched Jules and Vincent to retrieve his
briefcase has the contents of a container excited such feverish surmise. Some
girls returned for a second and third look. At one point the line was so long
I swear the girls were driving in from Hooters as far away as
So, Connie, that’s how we corrupted the employees of one suburban eatery, my little cake and I. I swear to you, Dave had nothing to do with it. He didn’t get his own peek until we were safely back at my house for the grand uncrating. I return him to you as wholesome as a Hooters girl. If you still trust me, I’ll see you Saturday, at the wedding. Do you need someone to pick up the cake?