Hot Wing Cult

Anyone who is a wing lover knows that it is an experience, from the time you leave your house to when you visit the porcelain office after consumption. This is the reason that I compare eating wings to being in a cult. When you are a true wing lover, you are very meticulous when it comes to the details. The smallest thing can steer you away from a repeat visit, like not serving beer. In the same way, the smallest thing can also keep you coming back, like an option to have only drummetes or wings for an extra dollar.

The wing experience starts the moment you decide to find the perfect friend to take on a man date. Yes, a man date. Because that’s what it is, two people who enjoy each other’s company and enjoy doing the same thing; getting together to share an experience. And no, there’s nothing gay about that. In my mind dates are innocent, and many dates don’t even end the night in the bone yard, so I see no reason why two friends cannot have a man date. Guys have a weird hang up about things being “gay.” Why are girl’s friends referred to as girlfriends, but guys don’t refer to their friends as boyfriends?

OK, maybe I went a little too far with that one, because that does sound exxxtremely gay. But I feel that man date is a perfectly good term. It is very important to figure out who to essentially ask out. The two main things for picking someone for this particular man date are to get someone who enjoys the same heat index, and someone who eats and drinks the same amount.

Once you have found the perfect friend for your man date, it’s off to the wing joint. Living in LA, it’s all about picking the best location to destroy a plate of wings. For me, parking is a big factor when deciding where to go. If you don’t have a parking lot, there needs to be ample street parking. Once I have circled the block more than twice to find parking, I usually get angry and question if I really want to eat wings. This is why you think ahead and get a man date so you can’t simply jump ship and abandon all plans to get fat.

After I am done complaining to my date about the parking situation and we make our way inside, it is important to find good seating. Now, when I go out for wings, I’m gong to a bar. So in my case, the best place to sit is at the bar, in front of a television that is NOT showing a sport that is popular over seas. If there are no games on, I usually ask the bartender to put on FUEL TV. That channel is always showing a ridiculous exxxtreme sport. (Yes, I spell extreme with three X’s…because that is just how exxxtreme I am)

Now it’s time to order that first beer and first batch of wings. It’s always good to start with a pound of wings at nominal heat to get warmed up. At most places, this is the heat index either one or two below the hottest choice. After we devour the first pound, I like to step it up a notch and order the next heat index. Typically anything with a name like nuclear or atomic will work. This is when picking a man date who enjoys the same heat index becomes beneficial. If you pick someone who prefers mild wings, and you order the nuclear, he won’t be able to relate when you look at him and say, “Fuck, these wings are hot. My neck is starting to sweat.”

After you have had a couple more beers, and finished discussing the heat, how sticky the sauce was, how much the smell stung your nostrils, and various other aspects of the experience, it’s time for clean up. Many people get on my case because I prefer to not lick my fingers, or use a napkin while I eat my wings. Instead, I let them get gunked up and make my way to the washroom. And just to clear something up, I have never seen a bath in a bar, but there is always a sink. So before you leave some smart ass comment asking me what a washroom is, when you sure as hell know what one is, the proper term is washroom, not a bathroom. Restroom is also acceptable. As I was saying, I prefer to make my way to the washroom and clean up. It is always a pleasant surprise when I walk in there and push the soap dispenser, and that heavenly foam soap comes out. I swear that shit is produced by angels sold into slavery to some sweatshop just outside of Barstow. And the reason I know this sweat shop is near Barstow is because that place is hell, and only the devil would be awesome enough to sell Angels into slavery. So after I am done enjoying the soothing foam soap on not only my hands, but also my face, it’s time to dry. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m all about hanging up my towel in a hotel room to save the Earth’s resources, and I think that flush less urinals in ballparks are awesome, but please bar and restaurant owners, don’t skimp on the drying utensils found in your public bathroom. I don’t give a shit if I kill three trees with all the paper towels I plan on using, I cannot stand using some shitty blow dryer that would take longer to dry than it would if I made one of those angel slaves blow on my hands themselves. And no, it’s not alright to put a paper towel machine in there, because I get sick of having to wave my hand in front of the shitty sensor, which is usually not working properly, to get three squares of paper towel. If you do decide to go green, spend some money and get the Dyson Air Blade, because that thing is fucking awesome. You stick your hands in, and pull them out while a magical air blade, which sounds pretty awesome, dries them instantly. What’s Dyson gonna come up with next, maybe an invisible condom? Because it seems like he’s the only one to figure out a way to do things bag less.

After I get my shit cleaned, time to square up the bill, and thank god for choosing a man date that eats and drinks the same amount as I do. After I’m on a wing high it’s too hard to figure out who owes what, and is much easier splitting the tab.

Once I’m back at my place, time to make sure I’m ready for what’s going to happen exactly 107 minutes after I finish eating my wings. I swear the wing shit is clock work. I need to make sure that I have ample supply of the toilet paper that the Bears sell. You know, the stuff that is tough enough to not leave toilet paper dingle berries on your ass hole, yet somehow soft enough to sooth the fire that’s coming out of that balloon knot.

As I am writing this on a plane and am about to land, I must abruptly end this blog. But before I do, I revert back to my original thesis, eating wings is like being in a cult. Also, I hate the fact that Stewardess’ think they are more than that, and want to be called Flight Attendants.