Take note of my surroundings, I tell myself. Remember any names that are mentioned. Remember the layout of the place, I tell myself. Remember the sounds of the street outside. Try to preserve as many details as possible so you can describe it to the police when you’re rescued from this kidnapping, I tell myself. Where am I? Is this a Jigsaw trap? Why do I find myself glued to this chair in this crappy restaurant being force-fed these absolute abominations of hot wings? Oh sweet merciful Gilbert Christ of Latter Day Wings, deliver me from this pile of shitbones covered in crap! M. Night Shyamalan twist ending: We came to Flancer’s by choice.
We normally start these posts by giving you a chronological story about our night of wing-eating, starting as we walk up to the place and ending at some bar trying to master the fine art of assholery. I can’t do that with this post, because it would be a disservice to you and to anyone who ever thought about possibly contemplating the idea of starting to think about eating a wing, ever.
Look, I don’t know Mr. Flancer. I don’t even know if there IS a Mr. Flancer or if some corporate shitstains just decided that they’d name a small chain of restaurants something kind of kitschy and catchy. I don’t care. I know I might hurt some feelings here, so I should state for the record that we only tried the wings here. Nothing else. People have told me that their sandwiches are quite good and that they enjoy their time at Flancer’s. I don’t fucking care. I hope their deepfryer accidentally gets caught in an unfortunate smelting accident.