It’s March Madness time! Even if you have no idea what the sport of basketball even involves, I’m sure that you’ve been made aware of this fact at sometime in the last 2 weeks. If you have been living under a rock (a rock that supplies connection with the outside world via my blog only), March Madness is the nickname for the annual NCAA men’s basketball tournament.
Kentucky is probably the only state where the University of Kentucky has an almost statewide fan following. I say almost because the city of Louisville stubbornly persists in supporting their own university’s clearly inferior basketball team. This fan following is particularly special because it’s not based on college loyalty. I would venture to guess that a majority of UK basketball fans did not actually attend the University of Kentucky. I don’t know if that’s the case or if that’s an anomaly in college sports fans, but I feel like it probably is.
Anyway, Saturday night the UK men’s basketball team played West Virginia in the Elite Eight (for the non-March-Madness-initiated that’s what the last 8 teams in the tournament are called). The Hubby and I decided to celebrate this event by watching it while consuming beer and food at a bar/restaurant. Apparently the rest of the city had the same idea. The only place with a table remaining 1 hour before game time was Hooters. I hate Hooters almost as much as the Hubby loves UK basketball (which is much more than he loves anything else in the world). My hatred isn’t based on the blatant sexism, unnecessarily skimpy outfits, or the fact that it’s appropriate to take an 8 year old there for his birthday and teach him to motorboat with birthday balloons (actual balloons, not a euphemism). No, my hatred is based on the fact that the food is terrible. Absolutely terrible. I think all bar type food is a little gross, but Hooters really takes the cake—actually they probably would take the cake and deep fry it. I have never eaten there and not felt like vomiting afterwards. Saturday I played it safe (or so I thought) and ordered the tater tot version of potato skins—no bacon of course. Here’s what I learned—Hooters can even fuck up tater tots and cheese. I think they added grease but that might have dripped of the Hubby’s chicken wing holding arm onto my plate.
Despite the terrible food, the terrible game (for the non-UK-basketball followers, UK played the worst game of the season and, tragically, lost), the over-reactive obscenity yelling fan at the table (not the Hubby, for the record), the motor boating eight year old, and the miniskirt-fleece-pullover-ugg-boat wearing girl who kept screaming in my ear, it was not the worst Hooters experience of my life. That honor is, unfortunately, reserved for a very uncomfortable trip to Hooters in college with my dad (I have no idea why I thought this was a good idea) in which we were served by my best friend.