I found myself having lunch at a Buffalo Wild Wings recently. Not my choice mind you, there is something about a restaurant/bar that has multiple televisions on the walls that makes me throw up a little in my mouth. Never-the-less I was with family so in we go. The clientele never ceases to amaze me in a BW3′s, you will always find frosted tips on both the guys and girls. I should have bought stock in BW3′s as the douchebag index seems to be on the rise in this country. And somehow the enticement of hot sauce and sports is too much for the average douchebag. So they congregate there and beat there chests in vocal ritualistic methods, guzzling beer and using the worst pick up lines in existence. However the female version of the douchebag, sometimes referred to as a douche baguette or slut for short, seems to think of these lame attempts as peacock feathers. When presented with such mating calls they tend to emit a repetitive high pitched response. I was thankful the Olympics were on one of the TV’s so I could zone out and refrain from burning my esophagus with stomach acid. Despite the clade of butterfly tattoos, I was still able to enjoy some synchronized diving.
By the by, the sauce is good but the urge to buy peroxide soon after paying the bill is eerie.
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