It wasn’t two weeks ago that the beloved and I went to the Mexican Hooters. And I distinguish this particular Hooters because when we walked in, it seemed a good 95% of the patrons were my people, we the people who travel in packs of at least five, from bebés to abuelitos. The only thing missing was a piñata. Although the way some of the machismo men were hitting on the waitresses, I’m surprised candy didn’t fall out of them.

There are three things you can absolutely count on at any Hooter’s establishment: great wings, the best fried pickles, and various sports on countless flatscreen TVs. There was a bad storm that night, though.  And before the satellite went out and they replaced the channels with a DVD of soft porn their calendar girls, I was engaged by the screen nearest me that was showing Ultimate Fighting. I’m sure there is a “professional” description for the “sport”, but basically, two people are in a steel cage beating the crap out of each other – until one is unconscious or taps out.  Me?  If my life depended on getting in that cage?  I’d slide into the center as soon as the bell rang, slapping the floor, and crying for my mama.

Now I’m not one to gossip, but let me tell you what I heard.  Apparently, there was a qualifying round for Ultimate Fighting last week at the residence of an unnamed father-in-law. In suburbia.  Where they have deed restrictions against having your laundry line visible from the street, for God’s sake.  And we know this because they are actual recipients of a warning letter from the homeowners association received shortly after they moved here from Louisiana.  (Although that should have explained everything, if you ask me.)  Now, I’ll tell you the in-laws could give the Disney model of hospitality some competition.  For example, if you live within a mile radius of their house, you and your family are invited to dinner.  Like every night.  So it’s no surprise that with that kind of wide-cast net, you might end up with a particularly vile neighbor at your place, like “Scotch”.  Scotch is the kind of red-faced inebriated slurring 40-something that makes you want to have your cell phone in hand ready to call 911, just in case. 

That evening, Scotch was inebriated, as usual, probably over there watching NASCAR reruns.  And everything might have ended up just fine, except that an unnamed brother-in-law, Family Man and Cancer Survivor, was there with his kids to see his dad.  And Scotch was pushing the Family Man’s buttons.   Seeing the degradation of the environment, FamilyMan began gathering up his kids to leave when Scotch lewdly said something to the effect of:  “Heaaay, …bo, fwhy on’t jou tell {FamilyMan’s 9-year-old Daughter} tah puttohn her swimthuit an come down so I can loohk ath her?”

Mmm hmm, sister.


And then like a Hooter’s flashback, somewhere, even if only in Brother-in-law’s head, the bell rang and in a flash he had thrown two blows to Scotch’s head, knocking him to the ground. The worst thing about it?  No, not that Scotch needed stitches, or that blood had to be cleaned up off the driveway.  But that the incident was witnessed by their respective children. 

I’m not condoning physical retaliation.  I mean, I’m the kind of person who apologizes to the minnow as I bait him, for crying out loud.  But honestly?  I’m not so sure I wouldn’t have done the same thing if someone said something that inappropriate about my child.