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| - I'll be honest - this place was a bit of a blur for me, for a few reasons.
First of all, the wing selection is, in a word, ostentatious. There's so many varieties that you'll actually feel intimidated and lost, kinda like the first time you had sex. Or every time...for...this person I know. Anyway. It was still GOOD - like, GREAT - but you're all like "what? what do I do now? do i? no...can't be. jeez, what the hell am i even doing?" and then you stumble around and make a choice and just go for it and it all works out great. What I'm saying with the previous stupidly run-on sentence is that you can't go wrong here. Everything on the menu is seven kinds of awesome.
Secondly, once I ate the wings, they were so fantastic that I became a little delirious and the whole thing degenerated into that scene in Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas where Dr. Gonzo and Raoul Duke show up at the hotel bar and dinosaurs are having an alcohol-fueled orgy and the carpets are covered in blood and flowers that grow and shrink depending on how your eyes are focusing at that moment. Or a reasonable facsimile thereof (in my MIND ONLY, I should caution - I think).
So from what I can recollect through my wing-addled haze, the place is full of fat white suburbanites making horrendous slurping noises and leering, frat jocks wearing sports jerseys and giving each other violently heterosexual chest-bumps, families with shrieking devil-children putting gum into each others' hair and lots and lots of Italian men wearing effeminate sandals made of lizard skin.
And you know what? All that crazy bullshit doesn't even matter, because the wings are the bomb diggity. It doesn't matter that the ambiance is only slightly superior to the lower deck of a Spanish galleon during Columbus' time, if they were outfitted with LCD TVs - I guarantee you won't care once the wings hit your mouth.
Just go here. Now.
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