End game

Last weekend we went to Buffalo Wild Wings, my absolute favorite place in the world to eat (because I am classy). Jason suggested it, although I’m pretty sure my subtle “Y.M.C.A.” spoof – entitled “B.W.3.” – helped tip the scales in my buffalo-sauce-coated favor.

(For your information, the lyrics to “B.W.3.” go like this:)

Young man, there’s a place you can go.
I said, young man, when you’re short on your dough.
You can eat there, and I’m sure you will find
Many ways to have a good time.

It’s fun to eat at the B! W! 3!
It’s fun to eat at the B! W! 3!

(Note that each occurrence of “B! W! 3!” is accompanied by the appropriate hand gesture.)

Upon our arrival, in which I gleefully rubbed my hands together in anticipation of buffalo chips with cheese and spicy garlic wings, Jason cried out, “YES!”

And while I was enamored with the prospect of greasy, spicy poultry wings, Jason was enamored with this:

Vikings cheerleaders.

I wonder if they have a dance routine for “B.W.3.”?