We would have been driving my car but Uncle Ed had insisted, since his rental came with unlimited miles. Ed's unfamiliarity with the vehicle, combined with his unfamiliarity with the surroundings were making the drive to find dinner more of a thrill-ride than it probably needed to be.

A handful of missed turns had been followed by a series of corrective maneuvers that had generated a shower of honking and hand gestures. My offer to take over had been declined.

Eventually, we decided it might be better just to stay in the center lane, pick a restaurant as we drove by, then circle back to park.

We were cruising through a part of town that is now a part of every town in America. Some folks have taken to calling it 'Generica' for that very reason. The road had six lanes, a thousand traffic lights and was surrounded by malls, fast food joints, gas stations and every national clothing, office supply, restaurant, auto repair and discount retail chain known to man.

"Well", I said, after surveying our choices, "we could try TGI-Thursdays. They serve American cuisine and have kitchka hanging all over the walls. Or, we could go to Ruby Wednesdays, Applethorns, or The Round Ground, all of which serve American cuisine and have kitchka hanging all over the walls." None of these choices seemed particularly appealing to Ed, so I continued.

"There's a Country Kitchen Buffet over behind the Wallymart, if you'd prefer someplace that's hung with country-style stuff, or the Texas Road Steak House which is pretty much the same thing, except that it's covered with cowboy doo-dads. Or", I added jokingly, "there's always Bazoonga's".

Anyone who knows Uncle Ed would immediately understand why suggesting Bazoongas was just a joke. Ed is a straight arrow-- just as straight as they come. In forty years, I had never once heard him curse or tell a gross joke. He didn't drink, smoke or chew. The closest he had ever come to using drugs was getting Novocain in the dentist's chair. He was extremely shy around women, had never married and rarely dated. The only reason he was in town at all was to attend the annual retreat of the Association Of Lutheran Choir Directors. Ed just wasn't a Bazoonga's kinda guy. Then again, neither was I.

Bazoongas, if you've never heard of the place, is a restaurant chain that specializes in waitresses-- specifically, in young, buxom waitresses who serve in running shoes, spandex tights, tummy-tops and pretty faces.

The only reason I know so much about the place is that I have occasionally past one and stopped to push my nose against the glass, like some pathetic, starving character in a Dickens novel. I had never actually ventured inside the restaurant though, for two reasons: First, I was more than old enough to be those girl's father, which made lusting after them seem kinda creepy. Second, I was afraid someone I knew might see me there and think the same thing.

We pulled off the highway and onto the exit ramp to the mall. A TGI-Thursdays was dead ahead. I thought that's where we were headed until Ed swung hard to the right and came to rest in a parking space. The sign on the building in front of us filled the windshield: "Bazoonga's", it said. The two 'O's were drawn disproportionately large, as if to imply something.

It took a moment to tear my eyes away from the looming sign. When I did, I expected to look over and see Ed chuckling and pulling the gear shift into reverse, but he had already stepped out of the car!

I got a bug zapper for my porch last summer. It came to mind at that moment because bugs flying toward it had exactly the same facial expression that Ed now had. There was no use trying to stop him. The best I could do was follow and try to keep him from hurting himself.

A hostess greeted us when we walked through the door. This is what she said: "Hi guys! Welcome to Bazoongas. We'll have a table ready for you in just a moment. Would you prefer smoking or non-smoking?"

This is what we heard: "Blah blah blah, Bazoongas. Blah blah blah blah blah..."

She repeated her question.

"Simply delightful.", sighed Uncle Ed.

"First available, then?", she replied. "Right this way, gentlemen."

We took our seats in a booth along the wall and spent the next few minutes looking like tennis spectators-- our heads moving back and forth in unison, following the motions of the staff as they moved between the kitchen and their customers.

One of the young ladies who transfixed our gaze walked right up to our table, frightening us.

I forget her name. I think it ended in an 'i'-- Tammi, Pammi, Carri, Bambi... something like that.

"Hi! I'm...", (pick your favorite name from the list above). "I'll be your server this evening. Can I get you anything to drink?", she purred.

Unlike most waitresses, who STAND next to the table, she assumed the official company position: feet shoulder-width apart, bent at the waist, elbows resting upon the table. This position made it extremely difficult, if not impossible, for us to maintain eye contact with her.

She giggled and repeated the question. When she still got no reply, she reached forward, placed her hand on Ed's chin and lifted his jaw back into position. Ed shook his head back and forth a few times, then emptied his water glass over his head.

"I'm sorry, what was the question?", he sputtered.

"Aside from more water, can I get you fellas something to drink?", she repeated, patiently.

Ed looked at me. I looked at Ed.

"Milk.", we replied.

Eventually, we ordered and ate our dinners. Ask me what I had and how it was. Go ahead... ask.

Answer: I have no clue-- couldn't tell you if my life depended on it. All I remember is missing my mouth a lot. Ed's kinda foggy on the meal as well, although he seems to recall having the stuffed chicken breast-- which surprised me since he doesn't like chicken.

We both left unusually large tips.


DISCUSSION TOPIC:

This story was based on a shred of truth. I really did visit such a restaurant with a friend who is generally well-behaved and really is a choir director. I wanted to share it with you for two reasons: First, for cheap, gratuitous thrills; and second, to get your opinion on a discussion we had after our visit.

The question was: Were we exploiting the women who worked at the restaurant or were they and the owners of the restaurant exploiting us? Or... was no one being exploited by anyone?


[Your comments are always welcome, c/o this otherwise
respectable publication, or E-mail to "outthere@westol.com"]