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| - Wacky Wings, how do I loathe thee, let me count the ways? In case you are the owner of Wacky Wings, "loathe" means "hate." Then again, I can't imagine that the person who runs this place knows how to read. This is someone who, when asked to describe wings, picked the word "wacky."
Well, what's wrong with this place? Well, the room is a full on assault on your senses: led palm trees, taxidermied poultry, and 90s music videos. You could bottle the tacky here and sell it at Shoppers next to Jessica Simpson's newest fragrance. Do you miss Matchbox 20? Don't worry, this place is paying them plenty of royalties. I feel like my worst enemy in grade school is forcing me to listen to her _Now That's What I Call Music_ collection. Every piece of decor here seems placed to remind you of dead chickens or Chernobyl. Or dead chickens in Chernobyl. Playing pool here is mostly an exercise in trying not to step on other players and swearing at the oddly built tables. Most annoyingly, this place is saturated with a heavy dose of good old-fashioned, witless sexism (see picture, clever right?).
The waitresses try their best, but this place is so poorly run that I can't imagine working here is a lot of fun. Good luck finding a server if you are in the pool area; they have some strange "you can't order drinks at the bar" policy which leaves you hunting down the last person who acknowledged your existence.
All of this "atmosphere" makes me want to barf. And that's before you order the food. Even the picture of the chicken on the menu kind of looks like tiny pigs screaming for freedom. The fluorescent tinge that dominates the room seems somehow to be mixed into meals. I know what neon tastes like now, and it is not good my friends.
So if you are a sexist whose taste buds have melted off from a meth accident, I guess this place would be OK for you.
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