Well, we've had fun, haven't we? Tip o' the hat to Team Plinky for letting me steer the canoe this week. And thanks to all of you who played along.

Extra special thanks to the few of you who took the time to write things like, "This is a stupid prompt," or, "I'm deeply offended by this prompt." God holds a special place in His Kingdom for those of you who choose to waste your own time by taking the time to tell someone you could just as easily ignore that they're wasting your time. All I can say is I hope you go there.

Soon.

Moving on!

From 1990 to 1998 I was in college. To quote Mike Nelson, "'That's your own damn fault,' you might say, and you'd be right." There might have been a year off in there for drinking, but really, it was certainly eight full years of living like a college student. And when you do that, there's a part of you that remains a college student for the rest of your life.

That part of me still eats Snap. Let us now praise the wonders of Snap.

Snap is what my idiot roommates and my idiot self called our mutant beans and rice recipe. This was the early 90's, and if you weren't ironically misappropriating hip-hop slang, brother, you weren't misappropriating. It started by us just using "snap" far too much in every day conversation. "Aw, snap, that class was difficult." "Aw, snap, I love Rolling Rock." Or, "Aw, snap, snappy, she snapped you in the snap."

It wasn't funny then, it's not funny now. We thought it was the height of post-modernism, but then again, we also drank Rolling Rock, so, you know, fuck us.

As evidenced by the third example of our brilliant patter, "Snap," became our "Smurf." An all purpose word that got thrown around randomly resulting in drunken chortles. One day, one of us cooked up our bi-weekly pot of beans and rice, and somebody else said, "Is that snap? Snap me the snap."

And for some reason, "Snap" ceased to be used for anything else BESIDES beans and rice. Then we all drank Rolling Rock and argued about Pavement. I don't miss the 90's.

So what is Snap, exactly? It bears no resemblance to any other beans & rice recipe I've encountered, and is more of a "Stone soup" type application. That is to say, whatever you have in the house that can, conceivably, go into it, goes into it.

It may not seem like a main course, but we certainly treated it as such. College was definitely a time where it was okay to eat side dishes as main dishes. It would not be out of the ordinary to see someone make a box of Stove Top Stuffing for dinner. Let's hear Asher Roth rap about THAT.

It was prepared two to three times a week in our house, and was eaten hot out of a bowl for dinner, re-heated for breakfast the next day with eggs served over it, and then possibly eaten cold in a tortilla for lunch. Or, drunk at 3 in the morning. It is cheap, deeply aesthetically unappealing, and freaking delicious.

I still make it once a month, as my wife is a fan of it's work. For years my mom has bugged me for the recipe, as she's also a fan. I've never given it to her, as there isn't a recipe, really. It's a lot of dumping things into things and drinking beer. But it's a lazy Sunday here in Hollywoodland, USA, so let's give it a shot.

SNAP (basic recipe)

1 can of Black Beans (not drained)
1 Onion
5 cloves of garlic (minced)
2 large carrots, shredded
1 bell pepper, diced
1 jalapeno, diced
2 tsp cumin
2 tsp chili powder
2 tsp dried oregano
1 Chinese take-out container of rice.
(I could never cook rice. My roommates could. Now, I use the Trader Joe's brown rice in the microwavable pouch. Healthy!)
Salt & Pepper
Hot Sauce
Salsa
A fistful of shredded cheese
Beer

Heat up some oil over medium-high heat in the large stovetop vessel of your choice. Over the years, we've used oil, butter, bacon drippings, or a combination of all three. I'm sure there were a few times we used no oil of any sort, and those times were called, "A night at Taco Bell."

Once the oil's hot, throw in the carrots, onions and peppers, along with the spices. A word on the spices: I've never measured anything ever for Snap. So, you know, whatever. Salt and pepper to taste as well.

Saute the veggies until softened. Throw in the garlic, and cook until fragrant. If you've worked up a little brown stuff on the bottom of the pan, deglaze with beer. I've also used dry vermouth or broth to do this. The advantage to beer is that you can continue to drink it as you cook. Unless you enjoy sipping a tall glass of vermouth or chicken broth. Free country.

Add the beans, and knock the heat down to medium. Have some salsa? Dump it in. Some hot sauce? Do that shit up RIGHT. Cook until someone's like, "Is it fucking ready yet?" Or until the bean liquid has mostly cooked off. Add the rice, and stir. Let the rice heat up, and then turn off the heat. Toss in a handful of cheese, and stir until it melts.

That's it. That's Snap. It will look grey. Don't let that bum you out. A friend of mine referred to it alternately as "Slop," "Robocop food," and "Mush." We're not friends anymore, and that makes the Snap even more delicious.

Serve any damn way you want for breakfast, lunch or dinner. Recently, I discovered that if you add broth to the leftovers, it's an acceptable black bean soup. Cold leftovers can also be used to patch drywall.

And that's that. Eat. Enjoy. Rinse. Repeat. And whatever you do, don't forget to see "Bandslam," August 14th.

Aw, snap.

Hooters, Times Square, NYC

But seriously, take your pick of "Tacky, Yet Unrefined™" eating and chest-staring-at establishments. I've been to various Hootoriums maybe five times in my life, and I can safely say that they are the least fun places on earth.

The hell of it is, it's all stuff I like. I like beer. I enjoy deep-fried food. And (and I hope this doesn't lower me in your estimation, gentle reader), I like looking at attractive women wearing caution-orange spandex hot-pants.

And Hooters wants you to have fun. It wants to cram fun down your fun-hole like those Japanese subway guys who cram commuters into crowded trains with big sticks.

The second you walk in, Hooters wants you to be blown away with how freaking fun it is to be at Hooters. With it's clubhouse wood paneling, it's crazy crap on the walls, it's million TV's showing a million sporting events, and Kid Rock blaring at all times, Hooters is your bass-ackwards 55 year old uncle trying to show you and your college buddies that he is still "Uncle Dan the Par-tay MAN."

And you just feel bad. Uncle Dan's gone through all this trouble to create this environment where you guys can just be DUDES. And do DUDE STUFF. Beer. Chicken wings. The game. And chicks. Chicks who talk to you, laugh at your jokes. And bring you more chicken. And more beer. Beer that makes Uncle Dan tell the same joke 9 times, and they laugh EVERY TIME. And he's like, "I still got it."

But he don't.

It's just so forced and weird, and he's so old and sad, and he's never been the same since Aunt Whatsername left. You can't even remember her name, because since you've been 10, he's brought, like, six different New Aunts around come Christmas time. And you know when this is all over, he's gonna go home to his studio apartment, turn on some Clint Black and just...Just stare.

Just stare into space, broken with the knowledge that the waitress hated him. Hated his jokes. Hated his face. He should call Aunt Whatsername. She got him. She was a catch, that one. But it's too late. So he fires up the internet, does what he does every night at 11:55pm, and then before he knows it, it's back to work at the pharmacy.

That's what Hooters feels like. Hooters feels like a guy bringing you to Hooters to prove he can still go to Hooters. The real question is, why are you there?

"Well...The wings..."

Shut up. The wings are terrible. And you know why the wings are terrible?Because wings are terrible. My buddy Dave summed it up best: "It's like eating a finger." Here's how bad wings are: They're served with RAW CARROTS AND CELERY. They're served with the two most boring foodstuffs in the world, in a desperate attempt to make wings look like a STAR.

Fuck wings. WHY ARE YOU AT HOOTERS?

"Well...The Hooters...The Hooters girls..."

SHUT UP. If you were raised Mennonite, I might understand. If you grew up longing to see exposed neck or ankle. I'd get it. If you spent your nights praying to Mennon, or whoever Mennonites pray to, that a Sears catalogue would accidentally get delivered to your house so you could see a fine ladywoman wearing lipstick and a tank top, like you heard whispered about in the Meeting House basement, I could begin to comprehend.

But if you are a guy, just a normal guy, and you go out of your way to eat terrible food, drink watered down beer, and yell "woo," when a team you don't give a shit about scores a whatever...Just so you can watch a woman who's soul is 22% dead dance the Achy Breaky, twirl a Hula-Hoop, pat you on the back, call you, "Darlin," and then bring you more terrible food and watered-down beer?

It's just all over for you, dude. Go move in with your Uncle Dan. Hope you like Clint Black. Hope you love getting your shot at the computer at 11:58.

I'll ask you one more time. Why. Are. You. At. Hooters?

"Because it's...It's supposed to be fun?"

Exactly.