They're messy; you can't eat wings without getting sauce all over your fingers, and inevitably, in your eye three drinks in. Then you feel the burn for half the night, constantly squinting and crying. Your date wonders what they said or if you have emotional issues. But the truth is this: wings suck.
They have low meat-to-effort ratios, just barely above ribs. You feel self-concious as you take a bite of a wing. Then, after three drinks, you find yourself choking on a chicken bone, desperately flailing and getting rescued by the world's oldest bartender with the world's worst breath. In the process, you find you've spilled your tray on yourself. Messy. Wings suck.
They're pricey; even on "cheap" nights, wings somehow cost more than a schooner of beer. At most bars, you're lucky to get eight wings. Naturally they're the small wings. Despite being a big tipper the bartender bears a grudge against you (for having to rescue you) so you get the smallest the kitchen has. And with a low meat to bone ratio, you find yourself putting in for five orders. Wings suck.
The darn wings are never hot enough. You suspect this is because you live in a white-ass area. The one time you do manage to get hot wings, you bite in and find the kitchen staff had dumped a whole-ass bottle of ghost pepper sauce in the batter. You splutter and panic, spilling your fancy slush-cone cocktail on your brand new white lace shirt. Wings suck.
It's your twenty second birthday. You go to celebrate with friends and have a wing-off. You order eight servings of the spiciest available - Suicide Wings - because of course you did. It takes all of three minutes to finish. You spend the rest of the night on the shitter in agony. Wings suck.