It's a drizzly late-winter night and we have a carful of revelers driving down Trinity Lane. We have no idea where we're going. GPS is erroneously steering us towards a motel, and it's hard to make out the destination we are seeking through the dark mist.
Then, like a mirage in the desert, we see a sign featuring a friendly purple donkey. That donkey is diverting us to Donks.
What, you haven't heard of Donks? It's OK — neither had we, until our photog friend Eric England told us about it. His friend Jonas Stein (whom you may know from the Turbo Fruits) DJs there occasionally with Sparkle City DJs, bringing hordes of hipsters to the hallowed intersection of Trinity Lane and Brick Church Pike for drinks, dancing and donkey legs.
But Donks isn't just about donkey legs. It's about badonkadonk. If you like big butts and you cannot lie, like so many others who have sworn fealty to Sir Mix-A-Lot, you will not be disappointed.
We walk into Donks and realize that it is, as we suspected, something akin to a gluteal Hooters. While one could argue that male patrons are always ready for a trip down Mammary Lane, butts at Donks get the big big love. So instead of cleavage-enhancing tank tops and microscopic shorts you have ... well, cleavage-enhancing tank tops and microscopic shorts. But at Donks, the team colors are purple and black instead of orange and white, and the Hooters Owl has been replaced with the Donks Donkey. And the pretty servers? No one is coming up short in the rear department.
Nearly all of the tables are full, the pool table is consistently occupied, and various sporting events blast from multiple televisions. Jonas and Co. have already started their DJ set, but nobody is dancing yet because everyone is focused on dinner.
Like fellow risqué restaurant Hooters, Donks has pretty good bar food. We couldn't resist the Donkey Leg, i.e., a giant smoked turkey leg — a delicacy we rarely encounter away from dudes with detachable elf ears at a Ren Faire. Better yet, their wings were superb. Those of us watching the size of our own badonkadonks enjoyed the slightly healthier Gobble Burger, made with ground turkey (which hopefully did not mean donkey, although they seem like they'd be fairly lean).
But we didn't come here for dinner. We came for ... well, we weren't really sure, but we figured it would be fun. So we kept drinking pitchers of beer, served in Homer Simpson-sized mugs.
Since I don't like to dance, I needed plenty of liquid courage. But some Donks patrons were less reserved, dancing solo between tables and effortlessly swinging around the onstage pole. Cheers may be a bar where everyone knows your name, but Donks is a bar where everyone can get on the pole.
OK, not everyone. There is an unspoken rule of "no poles on the pole," which prohibits men from displaying their exotic dancing skills. But this rule was quickly broken with zero repercussions.
I was secretly hoping Jonas would crank some "Fat Bottomed Girls," "Big Bottom," or even "Baby Got Back." But who wants to be Lady Obvious? I was afraid to make such a predictable request my gateway to the onstage pole, or even the dance floor. Besides, I felt bashful making such bold claims for my trunk. I'm not exactly packing junk. More like thinly wrapped breakables.
So I opted for the more private, dignified stripper pole housed in the VIP lounge just left of the main stage. A gorgeous, curvy lady named Kia had just finished teaching a "Glamorous Fitness Aerobics" class, which involves a lot of pole action. I'd heard it was a good workout, so now I was about to find out for myself.
I'll spare you the details. (You can ask the paramedics.) Let's just say this is not a fallback plan that I can realistically fall back on. I have mad respect for anyone who can work that pole. Including Kia. She's a badass.
In fact, at the night's end, nursing full stomachs and sore thighs, we all agreed that Donks is badass. Is Donks the new Santa's? Check it and judge for yourself, my Bad Idea Friends.