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| - I've eaten Wild Wing a few times now, but my experience at their Orion Gate location was the most memorable. Pull up a chair, it's story time!
So my dad and I decided to get some wings on a weekday afternoon, and wandered in. The place is rather small (maybe 20 tables?), but took in the right about of relaxing sunshine, and we took a seat at the bar, a few stools away from the only other customer in the place. The impossibly cute bartender was very courteous, and prompt with our drinks. We ended up getting orders of the standard BBQ and honey garlic wings, with a side of onion rings.
A little ways into our food, we started noticing a pattern, regarding our co-habitant a few stools down.
First off, let me paint you a picture: This guy looked like Gene Simmons, if Gene was run through the cycles of a middle-aged rut, graying hair, and a ratty tanktop. The kind of creepy guy you see wearing purple-lensed Ozzy-esque shades in the food court of a shopping mall, discreetly looking at teenage asses.
Anywho, it seemed that every time the bartender came to check on us, as she'd head back to the other end of the bar, 'Gene' would stop her, lean forward, and say things to her very quietly. My dad and I got a few chuckles out of it, because we were sure he was trying to hit on her, and she being waaaaay out of his league, would continually try to nicely get away.
This went on for a little while, when suddenly, on the 566th attempt, the bartender snaps at the guy, and starts raising her voice.
We were wrong. As the guy recoils, slurrilly asking what he's done wrong, she rehashed their talks. It seems that Gene had taken to drunkenly demeaning the poor girl every time she walked by. For you see, according to the Gene book of society acceptance, women should not get their nails painted with cute designs, and upon seeing the nicely painted nails on the bartender, decided to go all Peter Finch about it.
She angrily (and yet still oddly professionally) informs him that she doesn't appreciate being talked down to, that she will still serve him, but she's done with the chit-chat. Good on her!
Gene decided to not take the hint, and got all screamey about it, resulting in management asking him to leave. Still shouting at the poor girl's choice in nail design, Gene stumbled out into the sunny Brampton afternoon air, defeated.
What caused poor Gene to have such a mental snap over painted nails? Did he catch the love of his life in a romantic nail-painting embrace with a muscular nail-design-artist? Was the final image he had of his children storming out due to his alcoholism, the tragic sight of his daughter's beautifully-painted middle finger raised his way? Perhaps it was his years of creeping the local Dairy Queen while drinking nail polish remover that has warped his perception. Sadly, we'll never know.
The wings and onion rings were tasty and reasonably priced. The bartender got an larger than usual tip for being such a trooper, and for inadvertently providing us with some quality dinner drama entertainment.
As for old Gene, I'd like to think he's still out there, fighting the good fight for us busy citizens, stopping the horrific injustice of nail painting. Or maybe he's huffing hairspray in the alley behind Baby Gap.
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