I had gotten the offer from my buddy Zach, the very same one who writes all those delightful how-to magic columns each week here in Release. No, this offer wasn’t to let him pull a never-ending chain of handkerchiefs out of my bunghole. Instead, he proposed we go to an all you can eat wings extravaganza.

Zach, I and two others made our way to this smorgasboard of chicken in our noble Jeep Liberty, the most flamboyant vehicle on the planet, next to the Mazda Miata. We were greeted with several choruses of “Sit anywhere you’d like, guys!” upon our entrance. After choosing a table big enough for four strapping young lads with voracious appetites, I let my eyes wander about, stopping frequently to stare at the tiny shorts and tight shirts that surrounded me.

Our serving wench, Krista, was very kind and lovely. “Would ye gentlemen fancy a swig of our finest grog?” she questioned.

“No,” came my reply, “Simply bring forth a vessel filled to the brim with the life giving waters of the Susquehanna.” Soon I was joyously sipping from my glass of tap water, awaiting the arrival of the great meal which we had just ordered.

After much abeyance, two women, obviously of Nordic stock, brought out gilded platters full of drumsticks and wings. “Har har!” I cried with much jocularity. “A feast fit for a king, this be!”

“Here here!” came a rousing toast from Zach. We dove into our plates of fried cock, not stopping to chew or remove meat from bone.

Many hours later, with our faces covered in Spicy Jack and Samurai Sauce (a dreadful concoction from the east), my fellow party-members and I sat back in our stools. We undid our belts and scratched our haunch bones, belching loudly and basking in our latest conquest.

“I dare not eat one more leg of hen,” said Zach.

“Aye, surely this was not a poultry meal, now was it?” I quipped.

“Ha ha!” Zach laughed. “A fine play on words, Master Litwin!” The entire table burst forth in joviality, and we requested our bills be brought separately.

In my coin pouch I had only three doubloons, a shekel, and a bit of juniper bark. Drats, I thought. Luckily, the back pocket of my lederhosen held upwards of $20. I paid my bill, and gave our lovely server a firm pat on the buttocks.

“I pray thou shalt return hence, ye rascals!” she proclaimed. “My bosom is thine for the ogling!”

“Duly noted, m’lady,” I said as I left the establishment. Zach and I pranced about, while our two other companions looked at us.

“Dude, why the fuck were you guys talking like that in there?” asked one.

“Talking like what?” I asked.

“Like we were at Medieval Times, or some shit,” said the other.

“Wait, we weren’t?” I looked at Zach inquisitively.

“Dude, we were in Hooters,” he Zach.

“Hm,” I murmured. “I must have heard wrong. Oh well.”

We got back in the Jeep Liberty, not saying a word the entire ride home.