It started out like any other business trip. My flight was delayed - the car rental place lost my reservation - the hotel attendant had to finish his line of coke before the stroke of 1:38AM. It was 2:14AM before I found cartoon network on the TV.

At 6:45AM I was wandering around the campus of a small Christian Collage, in Florida, looking for an unmarked building that might house a small server farm, another day at work.

6:46AM – 5:06PM Nothing worth noting.

At 6:28PM I realize that I am hungry. Walking about a mile along the beach, (I thought about swimming, basking in the sun, making a sand castle - but partaking in any of those activates ALONE in the definition of a person who has never heard the heroic melodies of Viking Metal) I notice that Outback Stake House is closed for renovations. About 500 feet further is Raindancers Steak House. I am fully prepared to pay too much for a piece of cow and a beer, tip 27% and bill all of it to MITSI.

The sun is beating down. It’s only 91 degrees out, but the humidity is 93%. I push the door open and bask in the cool breeze of AC. There is a little tramp, dressed in black - she looks me in the eye. “We have a dress code.” It is not worth slaying her, that is the only question that comes to mind. I turn around. Dragonforce T a blazing, I head back the way I came.

I call Joy. She says some stuff. My mind is preoccupied with the true reason for my call. I wait for a pause, and I speak. “I want cow. I want beer. Hooters is the only place that will give it to me.”

She said, “I trust you. You can do whatever you want. I need to go. My phone is dying.”

Fuck.

Either Joy is the most awesome woman God ever created (even better the Eve - Joy never created Calvinism) or she is setting a trap. Girls like to set traps.

Fuck.

I call Lesbo. He’s gay. I don’t even listen to him.

Fuck.

I want cow. I want beer. I walk into Hooters.

It was the best decision I ever made. (I’ll explain at the end. Until then, I’ll write.)

I order some wings, as hot as they can make them, some beer, and a piece of cow. I have a revelation, I’m drinking Yengling. I’m in heaven. Everything is cooked just right, the beer is cold, and I have another revelation. The wait staff is not dressed any more slutty then the chicks at Texas Road House, who we (Davison, Towers, and I) used to hit on. The patrons are couples, families, and old people. I start to not feel bad about being at Hooters. Then I wonder if this is a trap. Girls like to set traps.

Fuck.

Then, in the middle of my enlightened bliss, I have a revelation on top of the revelation that trumped my last revelation. Florida will sell a pitcher (PITCHER) to a single person. Also, I am at the farthest southern point in the world that will sell you a Yengling. (The waitress informed me that just 23 minutes south, at the Hooters in Miami, you cannot order Yuengling) I love Joy. Girls like to set traps. This is the end.

Fu… No. Wait. I trust Joy.

In the middle of my most recent revelation, I have a revelation. I trust Joy. I’m on my second pitcher (PITCHER, for those of you in Texas) of Yuengling and I realize that it is not a trap. It’s not a trap.