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Login: richf Name: Richard Flieder
Directory: /usr/users/richf Shell: /usr/local/bin/tcsh
Never logged in.
New mail received Thu Oct 22 20:46 1998 (CDT)
Unread since Thu Oct 22 14:28 1998 (CDT)
Mail forwarded to: "|exec /usr/local/bin/procmail"
Plan:
8/28/98
We just returned from celebrating my 29th birthday at our semi-traditional
birthday lunch place, the local neighborhood Hooters. I guess Berenger broke
the little red wagon on his birthday since it was unavailable for me. Instead,
I got to shake my money maker in a vain attempt to look cool while
hula-hooping.
Hooters is a strange place. I'm comfortable going to a "gentleman's club"
(mysteriously, they let me in anyway) but you pretty much know where you stand
there. The women dance nekked for your amusement while they take all of your
money. It's okay if you stare at the dancers with a feral gleam in your eye,
the primitive proto-human animal part of your brain hoping that they will fall
and sprain an ankle, thereby showing weakness so that you can bonk them over
the head and drag them back to your lair. They encourage you to be lecherous
and drool over them like the mindless dogs you are.
Hooters is a different story altogether. The women are scantily clad in tight
fitting revealing outfits but there are also families with children there
eating right next to you. The same girl who casually rests her hand on your
thigh in order to get a bigger tip, also serves little Billy his buffalo wing
kiddie meal. It's a little odd I tell you. Not that I'm complaining, mind you,
it's just not clear when you are supposed to stare at the heaving and teaming
bosom of your waitress.
I just know it's not a good idea to try it when your girlfriend is sitting
next to you and scorching the side of your head with an intense glare of
hatred for being subjected to this hideous display of Male Hormone Syndrome.
Hey, nobody said I wasn't a complete bastard.
Next post: FAKING YOUR OWN DEATH IN 12 EASY LESSONS
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My old .plan files have been culled for your protection.
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