There’s too much nudity in this society.  Literally everywhere you look, regardless of what you’re looking at, it seems like you can’t go 10 seconds without some girl who doesn’t know how to wear a bra coming into frame, turning around, and twerking.  We reached critical mass with this years ago.  It actually got to the point where such things were no longer interesting, on a sexual, sociological, psychological, or any other level to most men.  In my case, it now elicits nothing but an eyeroll from yrs. truly.  I never thought I’d say this, dear reader, but fully clothed, even conservatively clothed women are now far sexier and attraction-inducing than their scantily clad, ass-jiggling sisters.  I am actually hopeful that our ridiculous culture does a take a hard turn back to the way things were when you had to a lot more than buy a $5/month subscription to see some girl’s butthole.

That having been said, I have tragic news on this completely mundane Monday: the neon-orange heart of Americana is bleeding out.  Hooters – yes, Hooters™, dear reader, that bastion of buffalo sauce and unapologetic cleavage – has filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy, and the news hit me like a barstool to the skull.  “Son of a bitch!” I said when I first heard the reporting.  This isn’t just another restaurant chain gasping its last (we’ve had plenty of those recently); it’s a cultural artifact, a garish monument to a bygone era when we could still wink at our baser instincts without a morality cop screaming from the digital rooftops.  The end of Hooters is the end of something bigger, something raw and reckless, and I’m sitting here, gut-sick, watching the vultures circle.

The numbers are indeed grim, a $376 million debt pile that smells like overcooked ambition and undercooked strategy.  Hooters of America, one of the two outfits slinging wings and dreams, threw in the towel back in March, citing the usual suspects: inflation, labor costs, and a dining public that’s apparently too woke or too broke to drop $20 on a pitcher and a plate of curly fries.  Many of the restaurants are still open, limping along under the Chapter 11 umbrella, but the vibe is funereal.  Sure, the waitresses still smile, but it’s the smile of a boxer who knows the next punch might be the knockout.

Enter Hulk Hogan, of all people, striding into this mess like a bleached-blond-and-bandana’d deus ex machina.  The man who body-slammed Andre the Giant now wants to suplex Hooters back to relevance.  Through his Real American Brands, Hogan’s tossing an all-cash bid for the chain’s intellectual property.  Not the restaurants themselves…he’s not here to flip burgers or mop floors.  No, the Hulkster’s eyeing the brand, the logo, the mythic Hooter’s essence, to slap on beer cans, T-shirts, and maybe a slot machine or two.  His camp calls it a “perfect match,” a chance to resurrect Hooters as a symbol of “unfiltered Americana – fun, fearless, and proudly American.”  Fuck yeah.  Hogan’s Real American Beer, already a hit in Clearwater dives, was one of the first beers Hooters ever poured, so there’s history here, a kind of sweaty, fist-bumping loyalty.  But can a 71-year-old wrestling legend, more caricature than capitalist, really drag this sinking ship to shore?  I want to believe, but my faith is as thin as those shitty paper napkins at Hooters happy hour.

Hogan’s not alone in this crusade.  The original Hooters founders, led my Neil Kiefer, are clawing their way back into the game.  They’re part of a buyer group snapping up 151 corporate-owned locations, promising to steer the chain toward (mainstream acceptability.”  Translation: ditch the bikini nights, swap the low-cut tanks for something less likely to offend the TikTok censors, and maybe throw in a kale salad for the health nuts.  Kiefer’s got skin in the fight – his crew runs 30% of the franchised spots, including the top-grossing ones – but the plan feels like a betrayal to me, a neutering of the very soul Hooters once flaunted.  They’re betting on a family-friendly pivot, but who’s taking their kids to a Hooters for chicken tenders when Chuck E. Cheese is still wheezing along?  It’s a desperate gambit, and desperation is a lousy architect.

The private equity sharks, Nord Bay Capital and TriArtisan Capital Advisors, still own the carcass, but they’re not exactly weeping into their martinis.  They’ve been milking Hooters for years (heh), and now they’re ready to offload it to whoever’s dumb enough to bet on a comeback.  The bankruptcy court’s got the final say, and the clock’s ticking – 90 to 120 days, they say, before Hooters either rises like a big-breasted phoenix or gets carved up like a discount turkey.

What stings the most is the symbolism.  Hooters was a middle finger to propriety, a greasy, glorious celebration of excess in a world increasingly obsessed with sanitizing everything.  It was where you went to forget the cubicle, the mortgage, the slow drip of modern life.  Now it’s another casualty in the culture wars, another tombstone in the graveyard of casual dining.  Red Lobster, TGI Fridays, Buca di Beppo – they’re all crumbling, and Hooters is just the latest to stagger.  The American appetite for shared plates and shared fantasies is shrinking, and I’m left wondering if we’ve lost the stomach for joy itself.

Hogan’s bid, Kiefer’s buyout – they’re sparks in a storm, flickers of hope or maybe just denial.  I want to root for them, to believe that somewhere, in some dive bar of the soul, Hooters can still serve up a plate of wings and a side of defiance.  But the air’s heavy with defeat, dear reader, and the jukebox is playing a requiem.  Pour one out for the owl, friends.  I’m afraid the party’s over, and the tab’s come due.

N.P.: “I Want To Know What Love Is” – Laibach