Two childhood buddies made a pact back in college: no matter where life took them, they’d meet every ten years in Florida for a round of golf and a long lunch. One eventually settled in New York, the other in Washington, but they never missed a decade.

When they were 32, they finished eighteen holes and started debating where to eat.
“Any ideas for lunch?” one asked.
“Let’s hit that place called Hooters,” the other replied.
“Why there?”
“Have you seen the servers? Those outfits… let’s just say the view’s worth it.”
“Sold!”

A decade later, at 42, they teed off again and wrapped up another game.
“Lunch spot?”
“Hooters.”
“Again? What’s the draw this time?”
“Cold beer, giant TVs, and you can bet on the games while you eat.”
“Fair point—let’s go.”

By 52, their priorities had shifted.
“Where to this time?”
“Hooters.”
“Still? Why?”
“The menu’s decent and there’s always plenty of parking.”
“Practical. Let’s do it.”

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At 62, they kept the tradition alive.
“Where do we grab lunch?”
“Hooters.”
“What’s the reason now?”
“Half-price wings and the spice level won’t set our stomachs on fire.”
“Sounds just right.”

Fast-forward to 72, after yet another golf match.
“Where shall we eat?”
“Hooters.”
“Why?”
“They’ve got senior discounts and half a dozen handicapped spots right by the door.”
“Can’t argue with that.”

Finally, at 82, the two friends sank their final putts and repeated the routine.
“Lunch?”
“Hooters.”
“What’s the reason this time?”
“Because we’ve actually never been there before.”
“Then it’s about time we checked it out!”

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