No alarms and no surprises, please.

Thursday, May 17, 2007

I've found religion!

Or rather, I'm founding a religion. See, I went to lunch today at Hooters. And I was inspired to say "Grace" because I was truly, deeply thankful for Hooters today. Here is the prayer:

Oh Hallowed Hooters, please let me genuflect and stuff to worship the miracles you bestow upon my furrowed, sinusy, head-achen brow that has been in far too many meetings this week.

For thine is the excellent Magic Hat #9 in a frosted pint glass.
And thine are the mostly pretty darn good, but not great, buffalo wings.
And yes, 'Kellii' with a surprising number of i's in your name, we would like 70 wings, "hot and naked" as the holy menu describes, for that is how Saint Hooter intended.

True followers of thy glory spread your word that breading upon a chicken's wing is heresy and offered only for the pansy non-believers or unfortunate woman that enters your sacred ground.

Bless you Hooters for allowing me to bask in your woody glory, from your wood-paneled walls to your wooden tables and even your wooden plates. It cleanses my soul of the evil white formica/drywall-ness that plagues my cube and office. Blessed be your roll of paper towels at the middle of the table, for napkins and their many devilish folds perplex me and distract me from the beauty walking around me. And they don't look nearly as good tucked into my shirt collar.

Blessed be the holy trinity of mandatory Hooters Girl qualities: Bubbly personality, serene patience with goofy dorks like me and superior cleavage. For it is these godly qualities that are a soothing balm to the irritation left in my noggin. For the trials and tribulations of staring at text-editors with many varied colors of "courier new" font-ed letters are many.

Give us this day, our lunchtime beer.
And forgive us, its alcohol, which may slow our debugging,
As we forgive those who log duplicates in the defect database.
Lead us not into the temptation that our waitress thinks we're cool
But deliver us from giving a crap if she does or not.
For hers are the nice cans
And the hot wings
And the ice-freakin-cold drafts.
Now and forever.


Like most churches, mine will meet on Sundays. But only at local Hooters and only during Football season. I, of course, will be the Pope. Now accepting applications for Vice-Pope.