Just Wing It.
There’s only one correct answer when asked so often, “How do you like your wings?” ……Wild. I don’t stop for my wings. I don’t go to another planet for my wings. My chicken wings do not come with a breast. And they certainly aren’t found in some hut. No. My buffalo wings are found in the wild. Buffalo Wild Wings to be exact.
After a long hard day of breaking and entering for pure and unbridled amusement, there is nothing like winding down with some 15pc. boneless wings. Maybe teriyaki and Caribbean jerk, split down the middle of course. Oh, the chef threw in an extra to make it an even 8 split? Fine by me. I’ll enjoy them even more because I don’t have some asshole in my ear trying to remind me they are just nuggets [entirely different shape and consistency].
I’ve come to the conclusion that it is not just a mere coincidence that there is a Buffalo Wild Wings in the proximity of abandoned buildings. It’s fate. An argument can even be made that Jim Disbrow and Scott Lowery [modern day Monets] actively seek these abandoned sites. Like the nose of a bloodhound, these two wing connoisseurs sniff out the pheromones discarded buildings give off, and then they establish their Wingdom of Heaven upwards of 25 miles from the epicenter.
All In Your Flavor
There are those rare moments when you get your order in, and the waitress smiles down on you ever so kindly. “On Thursdays we offer buy-one-get-one free.” Your mouth hangs agape. BWWBOGOF??? Your heart does a little backflip, and your mouth goes dry.
“Would you fellas be interested in that?” Shoot. She is still here, and you haven’t even acknowledged the opportunity. “Y-y-y-yes,” you pathetically stammer. You slap five with your friend under the table, hoping she doesn’t suspect anything more nefarious going on down there.
After putting your order in, you take a gander at all the walks of life in the building with you. A girlfriend and boyfriend finishing up dinner. She puts her card down. You relate. A U-12 boys soccer team proudly hoisting their participation trophies in the air amidst the company of sad, drunk fathers. You relate. A husband and wife, presumably regulars, sit close by. He has a camo shirt on, and you slyly whisper to your friend, “I bet he’s cold without a shirt on.” You both belly laugh and wipe a tear from your eye. God, if only the waitress heard that.
You look around at the surrounding televisions on. Women’s rugby, amateur golf, cricket, Knicks re-run, Stephen A. Smith yelling at Shannon Sharpe again. Foolishly, you attempt to relate to your much cooler friend, a gambler. “I have the money line for +1100 that Manchester United will get a third period touchdown against the Denver Nuggets.” Deafening silence worse than an accidental pregnancy reveal at Thanksgiving dinner. Damn he’s cool. You worry he has a better shot with the waitress.
Put A Wing On It
After conversing about how there is somehow always at least one unconventionally attractive waitress at any BWW, no matter how far off the beaten trail it is, she finally arrives with your food. You look up to say thank you, but you’re instantly blinded by a holy light. Immediately, you reach for your 10th grade, right-field, JV Baseball Oakley shades. Nuts. I left them next to my wife’s boyfriend’s Ray Bans. The opportunity to gaze upon the female equivalent of Jesus Christ passes you by.
She brings you a to-go box without even having to ask. Was it the U.S. Polo Assn. shirt? Or the black socks/white shoes combo that prompted this box, you think to yourself, wishing it was a different box. After making sure she saw you finish your Blue Moon – big glass – you childishly scribble in your friend’s phone number on the bill.
“Thank you,” you say as you leave with your chest puffed, teriyaki stain on your shirt. She hardly mumbles a “take care.” Turns out the 12% tip wasn’t enough to warrant a smile, let alone eye contact. You elbow your buddy, “I guess someone didn’t get to go to an abandoned building today.” You both heartily chuckle, and then hop into a car that is older than yourself.